


Of Wolves and Doughnuts

by Hatteress (goddammitstacey)



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Actual competent Alpha Derek Hale, Bonding, Canon Typical Violence, F/F, F/M, M/M, Mating, Pack Dynamics, Teen Wolf Superbang, The Alpha Pack
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-24
Updated: 2013-01-23
Packaged: 2017-11-26 17:10:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 22,340
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/652543
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/goddammitstacey/pseuds/Hatteress
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Derek was fifteen, circumstance and a goddamn doughnut had seen fit to Bond him to Stiles Stilinski.</p><p>In which Derek is more cunning than anyone gives him credit for, Stiles doesn't understand why the new Alphas in town are all up in his business and everyone gets a violent crash-course in what it means to be Pack, whether they're in it or not.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Balance

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the [Teen Wolf Superbang](http://tnwolfsuperbang.livejournal.com/) over at LJ. [Awesome art](http://delugedpapercup.livejournal.com/8384.html) by [delugedpapercup](http://delugedpapercup.livejournal.com/).
> 
> Thanks go out to the beautiful [writeroost](http://writeroost.tumblr.com), whose epic patience when it comes to my fangirl squeeing is only surpassed by her awesome beta skillz. Also ALL the cookies to [sassyladythegeek](http://sassyladythegeek.tumblr.com/) who was up all last night with me, crying over the use of semicolons and screaming at emoticons. YOU'RE A BEAUTIFUL HUMAN BEING NEVER CHANGE.
> 
>  

Derek was fifteen and still smelling of ash when he met Stiles.

He honestly doesn't know if Stiles remembers. He would've been ten – small and gawky but still ricocheting through life like he'd flailed out of the goddamn womb. Derek remembers watching with a numb sort of interest as Stiles ducked around the counter at the police station, flattening his back to the desk like he was the cat burglar to the doughnut box's fucking Crown Jewels. The dispatch lady had hidden her smile well but Derek hadn't missed the nudge of the doughnut box towards the hand that snaked over the partition. Nor did he miss the complicated flail of success when Stiles managed to snag the last frosted monstrosity out of the box.

He didn't laugh — he couldn't have, not that day — but he must have made some noise because Stiles looked up and startled like a splashed cat. Not that Derek blamed him. He'd seen himself later, alone in the hotel mirror, before his fist went through it. Dark hair turned grey with ash, face sunken and streaked with tears. A mess. Which was why it was surprising when Stiles took a breath, walked right up to him and offered him the freaking doughnut.

"It's jam," he'd said, voice clear and unnervingly sober. Too damn sober for bakery goods.

Derek still doesn't know why he took it, accepting the mess of icing and dough with fingers stained black. He also doesn't know why he broke the fucking thing in half and offered the bigger piece to Stiles.

"Share," he'd said, voice cracked. It'd been the first word out of him that wasn't a scream since he and Laura heard the howls.

Stiles — ten year old Stiles, who'd just slid under the police counter like a goddamn ninja in a bad comedy sketch — paused and _considered_ , like this was a life fucking decision and not the slight risk of a cavity or two. Then he'd nodded, accepting back the piece, black fingerprints and all.

The doughnut had been dry and too sweet on his tongue but Derek had eaten it all anyway.

He hadn't known at the time, was too broken and spent to notice. It wasn't until he'd glared at his shattered reflection in the hotel mirror hours later, and blue flashed back instead of gold, that he'd realised. But by then, it was too fucking late.

* * *

The world is full of people who hate what they do. Line-managers, clerks, teachers – everyday people stuck in everyday jobs, loathing every morning with the rising of the sun and despairing with the setting of it. Abby? She's not one of those people. Not least because she lives by the moon.

"Please," the girl sobs, face tear-streaked and crumpled. It ought to make her unattractive, but Abby's always seen the beauty in desperation. And this girl? She wears it _well_. "Please just let us go."

Abby smirks, cutting a look across to Dana. Where the girl before them is all blonde hair and peach features under a cracking layer of makeup, Dana is darkness and razor wire; face sharp lines and hard stoicism. Abby has teased her about that look — the utter, stonewall _seriousness_ of it — but even she can't dispute the results it gets. She should know – she was on the receiving end once upon a time.

"We're not going to kill you," Dana says, voice low, dark and fuck, Abby will never not love this. "Not yet."

The girl sobs, soft and perfectly undone as her chipped nails press into the leather of the boy's jacket. Oh, and what a boy. He hasn't said anything yet, hasn't even moved since he pulled the girl behind him. His eyes though – they're all but _humming_ with his thoughts. Calculating; assessing. Abby already knows he's the one.

"We're going to give you a choice..."

* * *

Adrenalin is a beautiful thing. Stiles has yet to find a situation it can't get him through. Werewolves, Kanimas, psychotic old men. But the bitch of adrenalin is it has to wear off sometime. And then — _then_ — the world freaking _ends_. The pain and exhaustion that've been clamoring at the locked door are suddenly left to tumble inside and make a giant mess of things. Stiles has crashed out hard before, dull aches pressing him into his mattress. This- this is different. Because along with the aches are coming sharp, targeted, knife-edge slices of pain. 

Pain that's focused far too close to venerable internal bits for Stiles to be comfortable leaving them to heal themselves.

Stiles grimaces as he fingers the edge of what's sure to be one hell of a bruise across his side. He looks pale and drawn in the mirror. The parts of him that aren't technicolour at least.

Trust Stiles to cop a possible broken rib before the age of eighteen.

Actually, no. Trust Stiles to antagonise freaking werewolves on a semi-regular basis only to be laid out by a perfectly human, perfectly _elderly_ dude. Funny. It's funny. Scott will laugh. Just as soon as Stiles gets around to telling him. Or anyone for that matter.

Stiles sighs, letting his shirt drop. No matter how it happened, he knows he's going to have to get it checked. If nothing else, he's sick of having a minor freaking heart attack every time he takes a deep breath.

Fifteen minutes and a mild case of paranoia regarding seat belts later, Stiles is knocking at the Vet's office door.

"We're closed!"

Seriously? The sign is right there.

"I know," Stiles calls, choking on the rest of his explanation, because what the hell is he supposed to say? Werewolf business? Breakable token human needs assistance?

The door opens before he decides on anything and it's only the possibility of puncturing a lung that keeps Stiles' instinctual surprised flail in check. "Heeeeey – ah – sorry to drop in – I ah-"

Deaton's face registers surprise for all of three seconds before his gaze zeros in — as everyone's does, and wow is he so over that already — on the side of Stiles' face. "Stiles," he says, his voice doing that zen thing Stiles used to think was creepy, back when Scott first got the job at the office and Stiles was convinced Deaton was building an army of zombie cats. "Are you okay?"

It's the exact same question Scott asked after Jackson defied the laws of mortality. The same question Stiles answered with a great big lie. Evil opposing teams, man – aren't they the worst?

Stiles is all ready to drive down that same road again. Tried and tested after all. But when he opens his mouth to reassure, to grin and laugh and wave the spotlight away, nothing comes out. Deaton's brow pinches downward and before Stiles knows it he's being ushered into the darkened building.

Deaton locks up after him, moving with the same sure smoothness he always does. The man's zen could fuel a small monastery, seriously. The back office is small but uncluttered. Deaton gestures him to a hard-backed swivel chair before perching himself on a short stool, and Stiles almost wants to applaud the dynamics of it – making sure Stiles is above him, in power and at ease-

"Stiles?"

Stiles jolts, hissing as he jars his ribs and yep – there goes Deaton, noticing freaking _everything_ again.

"I'm sorry, I can't go to the hospital or my dad will find out and he already has enough to deal with-"

Deaton cuts him off like a pro. "What's wrong?"

Stiles sighs, climbs to his feet and gingerly pulls up his shirt in lieu of explanation. Deaton does well – there's no gasp, no grunt, no nothing. "I just need to know if anything's broken." Stiles says. And he hates this – hates that he let this happen-

"Stiles, I'm just a veterinarian-"

"Bullshit," Stiles spits before he can stop himself. He feels the shame cut a strip off him a second later as Deaton blinks — just _blinks_ — like Stiles could pull out a freaking revolver and it still wouldn't phase him. God. Stiles groans, dropping his shirt to smack a heavy palm over his face. "Sorry - I'm sorry, I just can't-"

"It's okay," Deaton says. Stiles can practically feel the calm gaze, even as he fixes his own on the tiles at his feet. Black and white – that must be a _bitch_ to keep clean. An ice-cap melts before Deaton speaks again. "Come out the back - I'll do what I can."

The breath Stiles lets out is his easiest since Gerard landed the first kick.

* * *

Deaton knows Beacon Hills like he knows breathing. It's an instinctual thing; one born of responsibility and dedication. He knows the forests, the people, the animals.

He knows the blood.

That more than anything else had been behind the decision to let Gerard run. The old man may have been twisted, but he was beaten, and if Deaton knows anything, it's the look of a man that will stay gone. As far as Deaton is concerned, the less blood shed in Beacon Hills, the better.

But then came Stiles. The boy who ran with wolves, now running to him. It didn't take much. Deaton is good at getting people to talk and well, no one can ever accuse Stiles of being quiet.

It'd spilled out, a jumbled mess of a story, hitching occasionally when Stiles flinched at particularly probing touches. And frankly, that alone might have been enough to prompt Deaton to action. He's known Scott a good number of years now and he's not the only one in town who's learned the hard way that when you care for one of the duo the other comes packaged. Seeing Stiles' normally blazing eyes shuttered had kicked a long-buried hornet's nest, one that's settled between Deaton's shoulder blades and even now sees his jaw clench.

Yes, vengeance for vengeance's sake could have easily been motive enough. But then Deaton will never know. Because for all he feels the need to protect Stiles for the boy's connection to Scott, it's Stiles' connection to Derek that sees Deaton crouched in the dark alley, pressing one gloved finger into a pool of black spread across the pavement. 

"You're not planning on getting your hands dirty are you?"

Deaton doesn't startle, but it's a near thing.

"I do what I have to," he says, standing. It's been a great many years since he and Morrell worked together and although she puts him on edge, he'll admit that of all the options the situation warrants, she is probably the best.

Morrell quirks her head at him. "Good, I never liked you being retired anyway."

Deaton nearly snorts. Retirement. It's a special kind of dream for people in their position. "Whoever said I was retired?"

Morrell doesn't answer, but he doesn't miss the smirk as she follows him out of the alley.

It doesn't take them long to track Gerard. The spatters of black shine thickly under the sickle moonlight. They find him at the docks, pressed brokenly against a stack of crates, still leaking black and shuddering.

Deaton stands over him, throwing Gerard's pallid features into shadow and he doesn't need a werewolf's nose to pick up the acrid stench of sickness. The eyes the old man turns up to him are watery and pale, but still sharp. It only takes him a moment.

"I know who you are," he says, voice rough and weak. Deaton crouches, watching Gerard's eyes slit as the light slices back over him.

"Then you know why I'm here."

Gerard laughs, a wet, hocking sound that puts Deaton's bones on edge. "Do _you_ though?" The look Gerard levels him with is one of triumph. "I've done nothing that strays into your jurisdiction."

Deaton doesn't blink. The weight of Morrell's eyes on his back suddenly takes on a physical presence.

"You hadn't," Deaton corrects.

Gerard frowns. "There is nothing against taking the bite."

"No," Deaton agrees. "But the people you hurt in the process matter."

"The people-" and he understands then. Deaton can see it in the way Gerard's irises suddenly thin.

Deaton unsheathes the knife, the hornet's nest buzzing as Gerard's eyes flick down to it.

"How- I couldn't have known-" he protests, sunken body cringing backwards.

Deaton's heard many a similar argument in his life, most at the sight of the very blade now in his hand. His answer to all of them has been the same. "It doesn't matter."

* * *

Chris Argent has always been a hunter. He was born to it; raised on gunpowder and wolfsbane. It's a title he's always carried with pride – a source of strength; his symbol. It's a title that's slipping away from him – falling through the cracks of reality like so many before it.

_Brother, leader, husband..._

They're slipping from him like cards from a deck. Not an hour earlier, as he folded his daughter into his arms — trying and failing to feel anything but utterly helpless — he'd thought soon... soon he'd have nothing at all.

The next loss is almost expected.

The vial is small, glass carefully stoppered and contents a thick syrup red in the glow of the streetlight. To anyone else it might seem a morbid warning — leaving a vial of blood on someone's doorstep — but Chris knows better. Has been taught better. It's the one sign every heir to every old house knows and it's the one sign that every one of them dreads.

Chris lets _son _slip away from him, the feel of it numbing as his fingers close around the vial. In it's place though, another title rears – one Chris doesn't really know what to do with.__

__Head of House Argent._ _


	2. Bigger Fish

Stiles is the king of plans. Strategy is his forte; forethought, his bitch. That said, he'll admit his plans do have a penchant for having slight hitches. Tiny hiccups, even. Really just minuscule setbacks.

Getting his best friend turned into a werewolf, for instance.

This plan? Him as lacrosse captain? Foolproof, man. The whole starting training before his ribs are fully healed? A little more thought could have possibly gone into that one.

Stiles grunts as he swings wide, nerve endings pointedly knocking against his brain to inform him that yes, while nothing is really _broken_ (if Deaton can be believed anyway), he's still bruised to all hell. Engaging in exercise of the strenuous variety is going to result in some serious bodily payback later.

Scott isn't even pretending to not be using his wolf juju anymore, all but back flipping across the freaking goal to intercept the ball. Stiles rolls his eyes and refrains from clutching at his bad side like a stroke victim. Scott may be easily distracted, but Stiles has a feeling even he'll pick up on something like that.

"Now you're just showing off," he complains, trying and failing not to appreciate the puppyish grin Scott flashes him. For a guy who'd self-realised his way through a list of his losses not half an hour ago, Scott's being surprisingly chipper. Stiles would call him on it except it's been so damn long since they've had this: him and Scott against a world where their biggest problem is staying three rungs above Greenburg on Coach's sliding scale of annoyance.

For the first time in a year there's no Alphas, no hunters, no Kanimas and — yep, he's going there — no _girls_ to pop the awesome bubble of bromance Scott and Stiles have cultivated since they were kids. Stiles hadn't realised how much he'd missed it until it was back.

Which of course means it doesn't last.

Stiles sees the second it all comes crashing down. Scott's douche-tactic grin slips suddenly as he cocks his head, sniffing the air in a way Stiles is never not going to find ridiculous, no matter how damn ominous it is.

"What?" He asks, gripping his lacrosse stick a little looser, letting the length out for a better swing. He may have crap-all chance of fighting off a supernatural nasty with athletic equipment but he can try.

Scott scans the tree line behind the stands before he stops dead and Stiles follows the look. What he sees has the stick dropping from his hand. He's probably halfway to the tree line before it hits the dirt.

"Erica!"

He beats Scott, werewolf speed or no, so it's Stiles who takes the brunt of her weight as Erica collapses into him. She makes a wounded sound on the way down, but it's a secondary trigger for the pounding of Stiles' heart because god, how is that much blood even possible?

"Stiles?" Scott says behind him.

"Call Deaton!"

* * *

Erica wakes to the familiar rumble of a car engine and a hand pressed hotly to her neck.

Her voice, when she finds it, is agony. Screaming will do that to you. "Derek..." She ends on a moan, curling away from the hand as it presses too hot, too insistent against the wound on her neck. It's then that she registers the warm thigh under her cheek.

"I'm insulted, really," Stiles says, and his voice is a tight coil of terror under the bravado. Erica probably shouldn't be as used to that tone as she is. The pressure on her neck doesn't let up and she'll spare a moment to be embarrassed at the whimper that punches out of her later. For now she just presses one clawed hand into Stiles' leg and tries to breathe because, Jesus, everything fucking _hurts_.

The engine sputters under them as they take a corner too sharply and Erica is surprised she didn't recognise the sound of Stiles' piece-of-shit jeep sooner. The jolt of it pulls another wounded sound out of her and someone — Scott obviously — swears from the front seat. "Sorry! Sorry, we're almost there."

Erica knows better than to try and talk again. Her eyes must ask the question for her.

"We're taking you to Deaton," Stiles says, like that's supposed to be fucking _reassuring_ or something. Granted, to Stiles, it probably is. But then Stiles isn't Pack. He hasn't got instinct clawing heavy and _sharp_ in his gut. _Take me to Derek_ , Erica wants to scream. _Please, please..._

She doesn't say it, she knows she doesn't, so it's a surprise when Stiles says, "I'm calling Derek."

Scott makes an uncertain noise from the front, making Erica want to punch him. "Are you sure?"

"No," Stiles says, and it's not a lie. Erica can hear it in the pulse under her cheek. "But he might be able to help."

"They ran away from him, man," Scott says, and it's probably for the best that the blackness rises up and drags Erica down. Because her reaction to that would have been pure instinct and they've worked too hard for everything to come crashing down now.

* * *

Stiles is sick of a lot of things that have come packaged with his shiny new supernatural life, but the top runner has to be the blood. Thick, tacky and with an uncanny ability to get _everywhere_. If he lives his whole life without ever seeing another drop it'll be too freaking soon. 

That said, it's not difficult to ignore the wash basin under the window of the vet surgery in favour of folding himself into the corner of the room to watch Deaton and Scott work. He tells himself there's so much of the damn stuff, he'd never get it all off anyway. But really he knows he's pretty much incapable of looking away from the rise and fall of Erica's chest right now.

Because as much as he hates the blood, he still hasn't found a way to hate the people it always seems to be leaking out of.

Deaton works fast, the look on his face grim as he does something complicated and disgusting with a needle. Stiles tries not to look too closely, gripping his phone a little harder than necessary given that, really, it isn't his iPhone's fault Derek sucks at picking up.

Stiles has left some screwed up voicemail messages in his life. 'Get your wolf-ass to Deaton's, one of your puppies is sick' probably takes ALL the cakes though. The whole bakery even.

"Stiles?"

Stiles just about snaps his neck looking up, because yeah – that broken approximation of a voice is Erica. Erica whose blue eyes are now open and fastened on him despite Scott being the one gripping her hand like a clingy boyfriend, ciphering her pain off inch by inch as Deaton works.

"Hey," Stiles says, stepping closer. He hesitates to get in the way until Deaton nods at him, pressing another in an endless line of gauze strips to a wound on Erica's side. Stiles closes the distance to the table, scooping Erica's other hand into a shaking grip. "What have I told you about taking on lawn mowers?"

Erica grunts a short laugh and Stiles congratulates himself as he squeezes her hand. Her grip is weak but still there, palm tacky and fever-warm against his. 

Stiles likes Erica, carburettor to the cranium incident aside. She's strong, bright, and — once she works out who she wants to be — she'll outshine the world. Stiles has found himself wishing more than once that he could muster up some sort of spark for her; some feeling hotter than the warmth of platonic whatever-the-hell-this-is. 

Because hey, Batman and Catwoman dude, that shit's canon. 

It won't come though, no matter how much Stiles happily admires the ah, _fruits_ of Erica's transformation. The one person who's ever admitted to having a crush on Stiles and he's gone and friend-zoned them right out of the gate. His _life_.

Deaton sighs, stepping back from the table to throw a towel soaked red into the sink behind him. "I've done all I can," he says. "These wounds will take longer to heal but they'll do so cleanly."

Stiles frowns. "Why longer?"

Deaton opens his mouth to answer but a voice from the door beats him. "Because they were made by Alphas."

And seriously? Is there like, a class on entering conversations dramatically or something?

By the time Stiles looks up, Derek's already across the room. He crowds Scott out of the way as he leans over Erica, meeting her before she can push up too much and undo all of Deaton's hard work, because she is – everything in her seeming to want the space between her and Derek to be non-existent like, yesterday.

"Ah..." Stiles says, suddenly feeling seven kinds of awkward because Erica is- God, she's _whimpering_ , still clutching his hand as Derek presses his face into her neck and- yep, that's a nuzzle, there's actual nuzzling going on. Holy crap.

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry-" Erica says, desperate and shocky and seriously, Derek is a freaking pod person or something because he's pulling up and shushing her in a tone that almost makes Stiles fall on his ass for it's freaking _gentleness_.

"It's okay - you'll be okay," Derek assures. He brushes Erica's red-streaked hair back from her face and Stiles feels like he's tripped into an alternate dimension, because for someone purported to be trying to run far away from the guy, Erica sure is looking at Derek like the sun is shining out of his freaking ass.

"What do you mean, Alphas?" Scott says, tone demanding; exactly what this situation could probably do without. Stiles would slap him upside the head except Erica still hasn't let up her hulk grip on his hand.

The glare Derek sends Scott's way is unsurprising, even if the hand he presses carefully to Erica's undamaged shoulder is. "Did I stutter?"

Scott's face does the pinched thing that means he's about to start yelling and Stiles throws himself headlong into the conversation. Because while watching Scott and Derek rebound off each other can be entertaining, the pained look on Erica's face at the rising tension is definitely not. "Hey - down boys," Stiles says, which earns him a glare from Scott and a snarl from Derek. It's a testament to how so over werewolf bullshit he is that he barely flinches.

"We're having this conversation," Stiles says. "But not here - not now."

Scott opens his mouth to argue but Stiles fixes him with a look, pointedly covering Erica's hand in his. He watches as Scott takes it in and — thank god — gets it. He's not happy but he nods. Stiles could cheer.

The instinct dies a quick death when he looks at Derek – Derek who seems to have noticed the hand-holding shtick Erica and Stiles have going on and has decided it deserves the full eyebrow scowl.

"So - tomorrow?" Stiles says, pointedly _not_ letting go of Erica's hand, eyebrows or no eyebrows. Derek looks up and meets his eyes and where Stiles is expecting glaring, maybe a bit of growl action he's instead met with careful blankness. It's disconcerting as hell.

"Tomorrow," Derek says finally. "At the house."

"I'll mark it on my calendar with a little love heart," Stiles says, and yep – there's the glare. It's probably a mark of how screwed up Stiles' life is that it's somehow reassuring.

* * *

If there's one thing Derek's learned about being Alpha, it's to assume that today's hardest thing you'll ever have to do will be tomorrow's holiday by comparison. As he sits slouched in the far too familiar chair in the Vet's surgery, tracking Erica's breathing, Derek finds himself dreading whatever fuckery could top this.

God, if he'd known... But no - he can't even say that, can he? Because even if he had known, the choice would have been the same. It had to be.

Erica shifts, snagging his focus, and her breath catches with the pain of it. Derek doesn't even move — doesn't have to — because Stiles is already there, touch sure as it smooths the frown off her brow and shushes her back into sleep. The sight of it is just as freaking disturbing as the first time, when Derek had pulled up cold, left halfway out of the chair and staring.

Stiles, despite having the zen of a firework most of the time, has a natural bedside manner – hands gentle and voice, against all goddamn odds, actually calming. It shouldn't make a difference though. Erica is a werewolf in pain – Stiles could be the fucking Dalai Lama and she would still be lashing out. Except she isn't. Derek's jaw clenches as Erica sighs under Stiles' touch, expression smoothing and heartbeat steadying again. The same way it would have done under his own.

Not fucking good.

"Can I speak with you a moment?"

Derek looks up sharply and tries not to think about how damn off his game he is to have forgotten Deaton was still in the room. Scott had gone home hours ago, reluctantly leaving Stiles when he'd refused to budge. Derek looks to Stiles before he can stop himself, catching his eye and damn it, Stiles is already nodding. _Go, I've got her,_ it says, like Derek had asked. Like they're in this _together_. _Fuck_.

Derek doesn't nod back, gritting his teeth as he rises to follow Deaton into the office.

Deaton doesn't offer him a seat — no surprises there — and Derek watches wearily as he opens a nondescript drawer, taking out- Derek freezes.

If there's one thing Peter's return has been good for it's the laptop full of lore he'd unearthed along with himself. Derek has spent many a night hunched over the thing, learning not just about other creatures but also about werewolves. Lore that, growing up as he had — safe in an established Pack with an established territory — he'd never even heard of.

"You know what this is?" Deaton asks, tilting the vial so the glass catches the light.

Derek nods, hesitating a moment before taking the thing. Because _Jesus_. "Who-" he cuts himself off as the stench of mountain ash registers.

Well, there goes _that_ loose end.

"There's a reason you couldn't be involved in Scott's plan," Deaton says and fuck, Derek really should have worked out Deaton's place in that play sooner. Scott is many things, but calculating isn't one of them. "Gerard was the head of House Argent," Deaton continues. "If he'd died by your hand, it would have meant death for all werewolves in Beacon Hills."

Ah. There's something Derek's homework had overlooked. "Gerard was a murdering psychopath," Derek says, hand clenching around the vial. "He needed to be stopped."

Deaton nods, serene as ever. "And he has been. According to the rules laid down in times past, by the hand of one unbiased."

Now _that_ Derek has read. He sucks in a hasty breath, eyes narrowing. "By a Witness," he says, taking the gamble and Jesus Christ, how had he not _seen_ it?

Deaton smiles, pleased, like Derek's just given the correct answer in fucking chemistry or something. "That's right," he says, and Derek's teeth itch. 

Everything he's read about Witnesses speak of them being advocates for balance – when tensions between the supernatural and human worlds grow brittle, they step in to restore order. A lot of the time, that means cutting someone down. Apparently the important thing is that it's done without fucking _bias_.

Derek looks down at the bottle in his hand — the bottle filled with Gerard Argent's blood — and doesn't know whether to howl his victory or throw up. Because one wrong move, one step over any of a million lines Derek doesn't even know _exist_ and it could be one of his Pack being handed to him in a glass vial.

"Why are you helping us?" Derek says, harshly. "And don't say it's because you promised my mother."

Deaton studies him a moment, like he's reading his answer off Derek's goddamn bones. "My purpose is balance," he says finally. "But then so is yours. Pack – a true Pack, like the one you were born into –" Derek swallows harshly, tasting the ash in his mouth, "– is a careful balance of complementary forces. Heart and cunning, dark and light, Alpha and Mate." Derek's heart thumps once, _hard_ and he can't stop his gaze from flicking to the door of the surgery. If Deaton notices he doesn't give it away. But then it's not like Deaton ever gives _anything_ away. "My purpose in Beacon Hills isn't only as mediator – it's also as advisor."

"But only to a point, right?" Derek says, mouth twisting. "You can't be seen to be taking _sides_."

Deaton stares at him for a long moment, lip quirking. "No. I cannot be seen to," he says and Derek blinks, suddenly feeling like he's missed half the damn conversation. Deaton turns away and Derek's left to scowl at his back before he pockets the vial and heads for the door.

His hand's on the knob when Deaton speaks up again. "Derek. You asked who." Deaton's face when he looks around to meet his gaze is challenging. "You should have asked why."

And of course that's all he gets – because apparently rule number one of Witnessing is being an obscure fucking asshole. Derek scowls as Deaton turns back to his paperwork leaving him with the weight of the creepy-ass death-bottle burning a hole in his jacket.

Stiles is exactly where he left him, slouched all elbows and knees in the chair at Erica's side. The only difference is the snoring. His head is pillowed on his arms, mouth slack and brow smooth. Derek can't help but cringe for the state of his neck later as he checks on Erica, brushing a strand of hair off her forehead and breathing in the scent of calm under all the blood and antiseptic.

His phone's already in his hand when he takes up his customary spot again – a quick text fired off to Peter to send through all they have on Balance Rites.

* * *

Stiles wakes in an attractive and dignified manner, which is to say he manages to not _completely_ flail off the chair. It takes him a second to register his surroundings, another to work out why his neck feels like he's slept on a bag of doorstops. Erica is still asleep on the table in front of him, head pillowed with a familiar leather jacket. A jacket whose occupant is suspiciously absent.

A quick check of his phone puts the time at an ungodly hour of the morning. Stiles takes a moment to dread the sunlit portion of the day while he rubs feeling back into his face. Cold metal surgery tables do not a comfortable pillow make. Check.

The Vet's office is as creepy as it always is at night and the fact Stiles knows this from extensive experience is probably a bad thing. He gets to his feet, padding as softly as he can towards the door, so as not to wake Erica. If you were to ask Stiles why he'd stayed, he's not entirely sure he'd have an answer. Chivalry? Superhero complex? Patent love of his hand remaining attached?

Stiles shakes the hand in question, feeling the bruises from where Erica had gripped him. His kingdom for a gentle werewolf, seriously.

The back door is unlocked. Stiles lets himself out into the cool night air and breathes deep, his first lungful of air not smelling of antiseptic in hours. The car park is deserted except for his and Derek's cars, his poor baby looking particularly battered next to the Camaro's agressive sexiness. Stiles sighs and then startles hard when Derek, Creeper McCreeperson folds himself out of the shadows by the wall like a fucking cliche.

"Oh my god," Stiles says, grappling his heart back under control. "This creature of the night thing is so not okay, dude."

"You shouldn't be out here alone," Derek says with his usual penchant for delivering ridiculous cryptic messages entirely without irony.

"Well I'm not alone, _apparently_ ," Stiles huffs, wrapping his arms around himself against the cold and regretting it when his ribs twinge.

He doesn't flinch – he knows he doesn't, and yet when he looks up, Derek's _I'm-a-murderer-see-me-scowl_ look is levelled squarely on his ribs. "What happened?" Derek asks. Stiles really needs to learn emergency meditation or something because keeping anything from freaking werewolves is a goddamn impossibility when his heart goes off at the slightest provocation.

"Huh?" Still, doesn't hurt to try.

Stiles finds out that yeah, actually, it _does_ when Derek is suddenly all up in his grill, forcing Stiles to windmill back into the wall to get away from him. Derek follows him, because of freaking course he does. Stiles has about a second to register annoyance before there are suddenly hands on him; on _skin_ , because - whoa - holy shit, he's wearing a shirt for a _reason_ , buddy...

"Whoa! Hey! Bad touch!" Stiles protests, which of course, does absolutely nothing to deter Derek, the _creeper_ , who just hikes Stiles' shirt out of the way and levels a freaking full eyebrow glare at what's uncovered. Stiles doesn't look down — doesn't have to — he's seen the damage enough in the mirror. The bruises are yellowing now but still ugly; still telling.

"What. Happened." Derek snarls, full stops like lead weights. The vibrations of the growl echo through his touch and make Stiles shiver despite himself.

The go-to cover is on the tip of Stiles' tongue but he stops himself in time. Scott may have been fooled, still grappling with his wolfy powers as he is, but this is Derek: Broody Lie-detector Trademark Pending. Stiles isn't that much of a moron.

He sighs, tipping his head back into the brick wall with a frustrated thump. "It doesn't matter," he says. Because it doesn't. What's done is done – Gerard is gone and Stiles... well, Stiles learned the hard way what his limit is. Know thyself right? One day he'll look back at this and realise Gerard did him a favour. Or something.

He's so busy waxing poetic about life lessons he doesn't notice Derek reaching out until his fingers are there, slotting down and along his ribs like they're the missing pieces of a freaking puzzle or something. Stiles sucks in a sharp breath and snaps his gaze back to Derek – Derek whose brows are drawn and lips pursed, all his concentration on Stiles' ribs like he can somehow suck the hurt right out of him which – oh _hey_...wow...

"What are you doing?" Stiles says, pushing the words out through a mire of syrupy fuzz. Fuzz that seems to wrap around the aches Stiles has almost grown accustomed to, smothering and absorbing them until Stiles is taking his first easy breath in what feels like years.

"Derek-"

As suddenly as it came the feeling's gone. Stiles' mind clears gradually, like an afterglow and holy shit, that is totally not an association he needs right now. Derek stumbles back, breaking skin on skin contact and leaving Stiles to await the return of the pain. It doesn't come. Stiles scrambles for the edge of his shirt and spends a full second staring agape at his sternum — the same sternum he woke up with this morning black and blue — now clear and unmarked.

He turns his gaze up to Derek. "What the hell-"

Derek winces before tugging one handed at his own shirt. Stiles just about swallows his tongue, because he knows those bruises – he's spent the last two weeks avoiding them in the mirror.

"Derek-" Stiles cuts himself off again as the bruises begin to fade, werewolf healing kicking in. Derek drops his shirt and Stiles is left to gape ridiculously at him. Because seriously? _Seriously?_

"Dude... That was _awesome_ ," Stiles crows. "You gotta teach Scott how to do that - you have no idea how plagued I am by paper cuts-"

Stiles stops. Because Derek doesn't look accomplished. Or smug. Hell, Stiles would take annoyed at this point, but no, he looks...

"You have no idea what just happened," Stiles says, and it's true - it's so true, because Derek looks like someone just handed him a bouquet of wolfsbane. As much as Stiles is coming to realise just how much Derek's winging this whole Alpha thing, it's still disconcerting as hell to see the uncertainty in action.

Stiles practically hears the portcullis slam down. "Go home Stiles," Derek says, turning away. And Stiles would argue, would push and needle and bug, except he's gotten very good at reading Derek's many shades of perpetual anger and this one? This one's the colour of fear.

* * *

Reconnaissance. It's a dirty word to the Pack, Dana knows. A detail that promises boredom and lassitude. As Pack leader — Alpha of Alphas — it's her right to foist the odious tasks off onto the newer members. She knows everyone's surprised then, when she takes her fair share of the drivel.

What she'll never tell them is that what keeps her slouching in the shadows, sucking in the moonlight night after night, is the stillness of it. No Pack, no orders; just her, the darkness and her chosen target. It's relaxing. Something the rest of her life — always on the move, always calculating — isn't.

And sometimes it yields results.

She feels the excitement that runs hot on the heels of realisation. Snapping at the back of her neck and forcing her to _revel_. Because none of the others would have known to pay attention to this; would have known what it meant when the boy's bruises faded away, absorbed into the wolf caging him into the wall.

Oh, but Dana knows. She can practically taste the plan unfurling before her.

"Your jacket is reflecting the streetlight," a voice says behind her. Dana would startle but the recognition registers before the panic. She grins.

"Leather's badass," she says, turning and oh, god, she's missed that smirk like _breathing_.

Crista Morrell folds herself out of the shadows and tips her head, dark hair spilling over her shoulder and bringing with it the scent of berries. She's switched shampoos.

"You didn't tell me you'd pulled this detail," Dana says, stepping closer.

Morrell twitches a smirk at her. "I don't have your number."

Ah yes, they had to ditch their cells in Sacramento, fucking tech-savvy hunters. Before she can offer to pen her new number on Morrell's wrist, taking her time to ensure the legibility of each individual number of course, a car engine growls to life behind her. Dana turns in time to see the boy — the Alpha's boy — peeling carefully out of the Vet's car park in the same Jeep he'd delivered the broken she-wolf in.

She feels Morrell step up to her shoulder. "You gonna tell me his name? Or do I need to find out for myself?" Dana asks.

"You're a resourceful woman," Morrell says. It isn't a surprise. It's a line Dana's tested more than once and is one of the few Morrell hasn't compromised. Dana doesn't mind though, not when the other lines have much better rewards.

Dana grins, toothy and sharp as she watches Derek Hale shake himself off and re-enter the building. "Damn straight."

The touch that sneaks under the sleeve of her jacket, teasing down the tendon of her wrist before threading fingers through her own is the best kind of agreement.  
"I feel like I should be making tea," Peter says. "Guests arriving and all."

Derek's answering glare is becoming habit but in his defense: _Peter_. His uncle's always had a sharp wit and sharper tongue, but where before the fire it'd been softened by the warmth of Pack, now it's always a hairs breadth from burning someone. Derek hates it. It's disconcerting, no small measure of frustrating and an awful, constant reminder of what'd made him this way in the first place.

Stiles' Jeep cuts off in the yard and Derek doesn't bother going to meet the boys because Isaac's already there, swinging the damn thing open and offering up a smile that's about ninety percent puppy. 

Of the whole Pack, Isaac's surprised him the most. A boy beaten down as much as he's been shouldn't have cause to trust the way he does. But here he is, welcoming Scott and Stiles inside like they're already Pack and- hell no, Derek's not even going there.

Scott brings with him his usual air of simmering hostility, a feeling that spikes when he catches sight of Peter. Behind him, Stiles is busy studying the Alphas' paint job on the door, because of course he zeroes in on the closest thing to be researched. When he does look around long enough to notice Peter's presence Derek's surprised by the punch of sharp terror that rolls off him.

"Stiles," Peter says in greeting, ignoring Scott entirely. Derek feels it scrape an itch inside him at bone level. 

Stiles' eyes narrow despite the fear, and Derek has to give him credit. "Murdering psychopath," he greets in return, and Peter's grin widens. Derek stamps down hard on a growl.

"What is he doing here?" Scott demands, and Derek's almost glad when it pulls everyone's attention to him. Peter smirks and leaves Derek to answer, because Peter's an asshole that way.

"We need him." Derek grits.

"He killed-"

"Bigger fish, McCall," Erica cuts in from the kitchen doorway. Derek stiffens but lets Isaac scramble to her first. She protests when he takes the weight she's pressing into the doorframe but Derek knows better than anyone that she needs the help. He was the one to carry her through the door this morning.

"You shouldn't be up," Isaac scolds, and Erica replies with an eye-roll.

"And miss the big reveal? I'm just pissed we don't have popcorn."

It's Erica, through and through, and while Derek's gut still clenches when he sees the bruises and slowly-healing cuts, it's a relief to have her snarking again.

It's a relief that turns sour when Peter huffs an amused breath and says, "I like this one," eyeing Erica with a speculation that puts Derek's teeth on edge.

Stiles beats him to a response. "Hey remember that time I set you on fire? Good times, man." The delivery is blasé but the look on Stiles' face isn't. Peter's gaze snaps to him and Derek knows his uncle well enough to recognise the lip curl that precedes a snarl when he sees it.

"Peter," Derek snaps, letting a bit of Alpha bleed into his voice. It's enough – Peter glares a moment longer, but turns away.

Oh yeah, this whole conversation is going to go _great_.

Derek motions Isaac and Erica, wearing twin looks of wariness, over to the couch. He doesn't bother directing Stiles or Scott; he knows they won't take it.

"Erica's right - we have bigger problems," Derek starts.

"Oh _peachy_ ," Stiles says, slouching his way over to the couch and perching on the edge next to Erica. Derek doesn't miss the way both she and Isaac automatically turn minutely towards him. It's textbook deference and — while probably the least of their problems right now — it's worrying.

"The Alphas?" Scott asks, remaining on his feet – the better to get up in Derek's face, probably.

Derek nods. "They arrived in town a couple of weeks ago."

"Forgive me for asking the obvious," Stiles says, raising his hand like he's in goddamn class. "But I thought the whole point of an Alpha was that there was one - singular - uno?"

Derek spares a glance to Peter, who reflects his grim look back. "Usually, yes," he says. "This Pack is different - they're not a family unit. They're not settled."

"They're a team," Peter says. "They don't gather. They recruit."

"How?" Scott asks.

"By finding unstable Packs," Peter says, "and offering one wolf the chance to kill their own Alpha."

The proclamation is met with silence and Derek takes note of Erica turning to tuck her face into the curve of Isaac's neck, breaths short.

Stiles is the first to get it of course. "Where's Boyd?"

Derek watches Erica, keeping his own heartbeat carefully steady as he answers. "They found him and Erica in the woods after Argent set them loose," he says. "Erica said no."

"But Boyd didn't," Scott says, and it's not a question.

The weight of that settles for a moment and Derek watches as Isaac cards his fingers through Erica's hair - the very picture of a concerned Pack-mate. "If you see Boyd, the smartest thing to do would be to run," Peter says.

"Why?" Scott says. "Why would he hurt us? If it's you they're after," he says, this time to Derek, and Derek doesn't need to hear the implied _only_. If it's _only_ Derek...

"Because they're not just here to recruit, right?" Stiles says, and Derek meets his eyes – serious in the face of what's being discussed. He tries and fails not to remember the last time he'd seen that look directed at him.

Derek nods. "They're here because of everything that's happened. There's a new Alpha. The power-plays involved can be messy." Stiles snorts and Derek can't help but share the sentiment. "It can attract attention," he continues. " _Human_ attention."

Stiles tips his head, tapping a knuckle against his chin. It's like the kid can't think without fiddling with his damn face. "So - what, these guys are like your Men in Black? Here to keep the existence of werewolves under the radar?" he says.

"Like that," Peter says. "But with less memory erasure and more killing everything."

Derek has to wonder if Peter practices this shit in the mirror. "They descend on unstable Packs," Derek says. "And if they're found wanting..." Derek pauses, can't help but look to Erica, still healing. "No one walks away."

"Except Boyd," Scott says quietly. Erica flinches hard enough that Stiles moves a hand to her shoulder. Derek knows better than to hope Peter doesn't see it.

"Boyd is gambling," Peter says. "If the Pack stands, he's the one fed to the wolves. Literally."

"This is why you've been recruiting," Stiles says suddenly, because of course he's put those pieces together, damn it. "You knew they were coming – you were trying to stabilise the Pack."

"You knew and you still dragged kids into this anyway?" Scott says and yep, there's that anger. Derek's not at all surprised that Scott's finally found something to yell about.

"We knew what we were getting into-" Isaac starts but Derek stops him with a wave, not breaking Scott's glare.

"I did what I had to do," he bites out.

Scott squares his shoulders, like he always does before a yelling match. It's ridiculous how used to the gesture Derek is. "You could have left! They wouldn't-"

"They would've come anyway," Derek snaps. "And they would've found _you_ – you and Stiles and goddamn _Jackson_ -" Derek growls, low and frustrated. "An absent Alpha and a giant fucking supernatural mess – they'd have wiped you all out on _principle_."

Scott, miracles of fucking miracles, is speechless, staring at Derek like he can't even begin to fathom the concept of Derek sticking around for the sake of a few teenagers. Derek would take offence except he's honestly not sure what he would have done either, had one teen in particular not been on the line.

He still remembers the moment, as he'd stood over Peter's blackened body – the shivering few seconds between Scott's protest and the swipe of claws that decided his fate. He'd thought about letting Scott take the kill. Even if it didn't work, if he didn't revert to human, it just meant he'd be Alpha and Derek would be free to do what he did best: run. And maybe — who knew — maybe Scott would pull it together as Alpha. Or maybe the Alpha Pack would find Beacon Hills free of werewolves when they arrived and not dig any deeper. 

_Maybe_. 

Then, of course, Derek had seen Stiles. Stiles, who he'd been able to leave behind, once. But that was before he'd spent any amount of time with him; before Stiles'd had a chance to worm through the cracks of Derek's life and set up fucking shop. And just like that, any possibility – _anything_ that might've ended with Stiles falling wasn't an option.

"You've already chosen," Peter had rasped. And he had.

The silence stretches until Scott looks down and away. Derek doesn't look at Stiles.

"So, ah," Stiles says. "What can we do?"

"We can work together," Derek says, still glaring at Scott. "You may not want me as your Alpha, but you don't have much choice right now." Scott's mouth twists, but he doesn't voice any protest. Derek thinks that progress warrants a goddamn parade.

"So, strength in numbers," Stiles says, like he's taking notes for a freaking exam. "Anything else?"

"Derek's authority as Alpha is paramount," Peter says, and though he's right, Derek still finds it disconcerting as hell when said in so many words. "An unchallenged Alpha is the second strongest leadership a Pack can have."

Fuck. Derek pins Peter with a glare, because of course the question's coming-

"Second strongest? What's the first?" Stiles asks and Derek wants to punch something. Like Peter's face. Peter's face that's splitting into a smile that's all teeth, and shit, there is absolutely no way he doesn't know-

"A Mated pair," Peter says, not moving his eyes from Derek's, and Derek doesn't even have to know Peter to read the intent. _I know_ , it says. _Bet you wish you knew what I'm going to do with it._

"A Mated- werewolves Mate?" Stiles says incredulously. "Like, that's not just something that happens in smutty fanfiction?"

Oh Jesus Christ... Derek closes his eyes and pinches the bridge of his nose because fuck his life, this isn't happening.

"Alphas Mate," Peter corrects, almost fucking gleefully. "Werewolves Bond."

"What's the difference?"

"Any werewolf can Bond – it's-" Peter pauses, and the alienness of the hesitation is enough to make Derek look back up at him. What he sees makes him blink, because ... it isn't the man that killed his sister. Instead, it's the uncle that used to cook him pancakes on Sunday mornings. They'd been shaped like moons and stars. The stars were Derek's favourite. "It's being a part of someone," Peter continues, voice heavier now and Derek looks away. "It gives you a connection to them – some couples have been said to be able to feel what the other feels."

Derek swallows hard, trying and failing not to think about what it might be like to feel someone you love burn to death.

"And what? Alpha mating is like that on steroids?" Stiles asks, and Derek finds himself paying closer attention despite himself. His parents had been Mated of course, but he'd never cared to learn the dynamics of the relationship. Not least because, well, it was his _parents_.

"In a way," Peter says. "Instead of just being connected to each other, the Alpha pair connects the whole Pack."

Derek blinks and Peter, of course, zeroes in on it like a goddamn sniper. "A Pack can function perfectly well without the connection of course but, well – you can feel the difference."

He can. Derek had thought it was just the lack of family, of blood – it's been getting better, the more familiar the group becomes; but still, there's something not quite there...

"You realise what this means right?" Stiles says and Derek glances over because yep, of course Stiles' eyes are on him. "It's your civil duty to get laid, man," he says, shit-eating grin spreading across his face. "Lives depend on it."

"You volunteering?" Derek snaps back and fuck, shit _fuck_ – think and then speak, for fucks _sake_. The words have the desired effect, though. Stiles looks like he's been slapped in the face with a wet fish and Erica — oh God, she's so Derek's favourite right now — is _roaring_ with laughter. Derek looks away before Stiles can recover, yanking the conversation back on topic with a viciousness that's borderline over-compensating; he's rattled enough he can't help it. Peter's grin follows him like a fucking playground bully.

* * *

Stiles and Scott leave Derek's house with instructions to lay low, a copy of Peter's bestiary (hard won, Stiles might add) and — at least in Stiles' case — an unpleasant case of the words _Derek_ and _mating_ occupying the same section of his brain at once. Unpleasant mostly because it isn't entirely unwelcome if Stiles is being brutally honest with himself.

Because – Jesus, yes, okay, Derek is like, sculpted from hotness – Stiles can fully admit this. It doesn't mean anything. He's a healthy teenage boy; he's basically hard-wired to want to rub up against things. But then some semblance of survival instinct also comes packaged and Derek, being the sort to rip someone's spleen out for looking at him wrong, pretty much has pride of place on Stiles' Danger-Will-Robinson list of masturbatory material. Stiles has drawn a giant red line down the middle of his brain that segregates thoughts of Derek from thoughts of sex. It's a good line. It's held up against wall shoving, unfair cheekbonage and Derek's frankly obnoxious aversion to shirts.

And now here it is wavering in the face of goddamn werewolf mating habits. Why? Because Stiles' curiosity lives to make his life a special hell.

Also Derek lives to help it along, because seriously? _Are you volunteering?_ What the shit is that?

Stiles snorts as he pulls his keys out and does his usual uncoordinated shuffle through the bunch. One day he's going to get stupid, colour-coded plastic covers for these things, he swears to God. His sound of triumph at finding the correct key dies on his lips when he goes to shove it in his front door. Because the thing swings open unaided.

Stiles has all of a second to feel his stomach dropping into his knees before a weight hits him between the shoulder blades and shoves him into the darkened house.

He flails, landing in an ungainly sprawl against the hallway wall and flips over just in time to watch a petite blond girl in an obnoxious red leather jacket close the door, lips pursed and eyes laughing. "You're all grace, really," she says, and Stiles doesn't even need the flash of too sharp teeth to know who she is. Or rather, what.

"Humans," he says. "We're a clumsy bunch."

He straightens his jacket, skewed around his arms from his fall, and manages to palm his phone from his pocket, keeping his sleeve over his hand.

"I wouldn't know," the girl hums, and Stiles wants to give her a gold star in being entirely predictable.

He manages to hit the wake button and is about to speed dial Scott before his wrist is yanked sharply, claws digging in and making him shout as he drops the phone.

"Quick hands," a voice says in his ear and yay, tag teaming she-wolves for the win. "Am I going to have to break them off?"

"Ow ow ow, no!" Stiles yelps, trying and failing to twist with the grip and sure, he's probably imagining the feeling of his bones creaking but _Jesus_. As quickly as it came the grip is gone and Stiles is left to gasp, cradling his wrist as the second Alpha circles around in front of him. She's Red Jacket's polar opposite – tall, with dark, cropped hair and smooth, hard muscle. And of course, the black leather coat.

"Is there like, a leather outlet store just for werewolves or something?" Stiles says, because his brain-to-mouth filter is synonymous with a death wish apparently. Instead of breaking him in half, the dark haired woman — the superior of the two if Stiles is any judge — just smiles, low and slightly feral. It's a smile that would have made Kate Argent take notes. Stiles feels his lungs try to hide behind his spine.

"Quick mouth too," she says. "Let's see if the mind is in keeping with the trend." Black Leather cages him against the wall and man, why do all the hot people in his life feel the need to threaten him from inches away? "If my sources are correct, and they usually are, your dad's going to be walking through that door in about fifteen minutes."

Stiles freezes.

The Alpha smiles, slow and cruel. "Ah yes, there it is."

"What do you want?" He asks.

"We're having a party," Red Jacket says happily. "And you're the guest of honour."

* * *

Boyd's never been good with people. He's too quiet, sits too still and notices far too much. When he was younger, he used to try to hide it – tried fidgeting and laughing, tried to fit in. It never took though. People have a sixth sense for knowing when someone's faking it and sheep skin has never fit Boyd well.

But just because Boyd isn't good _with_ people, doesn't mean he's not good _at_ them. Years of sitting at the edge of things has made him very adept at reading the world. Characters, situations, motivations...

Dana is the leader of the Alpha Pack. She takes her job seriously but doesn't revel in the blood that comes with it. She didn't join in when the Pack fell on Erica, instead she'd kept her dark eyes fixed on Boyd; something that, at the time, Boyd had been almost glad for. Without that stare to pin him down — to remind him of what is at stake — he isn't sure what he would have done. What Dana lacks in bloodthirst she makes up for in cunning. She likes strategy, likes laying a plan out and seeing it fall into place. Boyd's learned that she's the longest running leader the Pack has had. It doesn't surprise him.

Eli and Jacob are the youngest, newly recruited and still green. Boyd's learned that they mark a diversion in the Pack's usual formula: recruit one and wipe the remainder out. Instead, Jacob - the eldest by forty-one minutes, as he likes to remind everyone – brokered his deal to include his brother. The Alpha of the next Pack to fall after Jacob's was Eli's kill and Boyd has picked up on enough hard-packed strain between Dana and Jacob to know the situation wasn't even close to ideal. It's likely the reason the twins have been left behind to play babysitter. Boyd doesn't know where Dana and Abby have disappeared to, but it's a destination interesting enough to have warranted a loud complaint from Eli.

Boyd's been concentrating on his breathing since they left, playing Go-Fish with his keepers as he measures the beats of his heart with careful consideration. Picking up his latest hand he tries not to imagine what sort of plan would be enough to put a grin on Dana's stoic face. Or the shine of bloodlust in Abby's eyes.

And yes, Abby. Abby is the last of the Pack, Dana's second-in-command and the member of the Pack who puts Boyd the most on edge. She's young – mid-twenties, blonde and pretty. She has a wide smile and the laugh of someone three times her size. Eli calls her exuberant. Boyd calls her a sadistic bitch. 

He still remembers the sound of Erica's bones breaking under Abby's hands, the way Erica had screamed and Abby- Abby had laughed, like it was the greatest punch line to the best joke ever. Boyd's never hated anyone before, but he thinks he might hate her.

"You got any sevens?" Jacob asks.

Boyd breathes, _in_ , _out_ , before he shakes his head. "Go fish," he says.

Jacob groans, just in time for the sound of it to be swallowed by the metallic din of the warehouse door scraping open. Boyd wasn't surprised when the group of them had headed into the industrial district following their meeting in the woods. Off the radar and plenty of cover. Their current squat is an old textile factory, long since closed but still reeking of dye and cloth. It's strong enough that Eli — gifted with a particularly strong sense of smell — has been wondering around half the day with a bandana tied around his face. Dana had shut down his complaints quickly though – strong smells would keep the Hale Pack from tracking them, she'd said. Even so, it's not enough that Boyd doesn't immediately recognise the scent of the person Abby's dragging into the warehouse, ragged bag secured over his head. It's shock enough that Boyd's on his feet before he realises he's moved.

Abby steps over a fallen beam but her charge isn't as lucky, stumbling with a curse. "Oh my god, could you _suck_ any more at this whole leading the blind thing?" He gripes and yep, that's Stiles all right.

Boyd's heart takes off and he allows himself the surprise. It's to be expected. "What's he doing here?"

Stiles' head snaps up at his voice. "Boyd?" Abby yanks the bag from his head and he's left to splutter for a moment before focusing. When he does it's with a scowl. "It's true then," he says lowly. "What have we learned from Vader about going dark side, huh?"

"That you get to choke your enemies with your brain?" Eli says, and Boyd watches as Stiles narrows his eyes at him.

"Touché," he says, and then yelps when Abby yanks him forward. "Has anyone told you you're as gentle as a linebacker?" He says, and Boyd would smirk if he hadn't witnessed firsthand just how ungentle Abby can be.

"Man, do you ever shut up?" Abby asks.

"No," Boyd says. "It's kinda his thing."

"He's right, actually," Stiles grunts as Abby all but throws him against a metal partition – the same partition she'd smirked at Boyd from this morning as she secured handcuffs to select poles of it. Ah... 

"Whoa, hey..." Stiles says as she cuffs him, arms splayed. "Don't we need a safe word or something here?"

Abby grins like her personal theme song is the Jaws soundtrack. "Mine's apples," she says, closing the second cuff with a vicious snap that almost makes Boyd flinch.

Stiles' teeth grit and Boyd doesn't need to be a werewolf to read the pain on him. "I'm not sure you understand the concept of-"

"That's enough," Dana says, cutting him off effectively. Boyd almost wants to take a picture for posterity. Abby steps back from Stiles and Dana takes her place, caging him back against the partition with her stare alone.

"For what it's worth, I am sorry for what's going to happen to you," she says, and the real thread of regret to the tone is enough to punch something lead into Boyd's gut. Boyd holds himself still but takes a breath, seeking the scent of Stiles' fear and dragging it down _deep_.

"And what's that exactly?" Stiles says, flinching when Dana reaches up and hooks two clawed fingers into the collar of his shirt.

"You've seen the connection between a wolf and their Alpha," Dana says, drawing Stiles's collar aside to bare his shoulder. Stiles gets it the same time Boyd does, the scent of his fear spiking tangy and harsh in the back of Boyd's throat.

"I don't think you understand just how sucky I'd be as a werewolf, lady," Stiles says quickly, panic lending its own edge of sourness to the already cloying fear. Boyd breathes it in, letting it mix with the stench of old dyes and machinery.

"Oh babe, you're not going to be a werewolf," Abby says, voice sweet and terrifying as she steps forward and rips the sleeve of Stiles' shirt up to the elbow. Boyd watches as Jacob does the same at Stiles' other wrist, his expression grim. Very suddenly, he gets it.

Before Derek bit Boyd, he'd explained the process. Full disclosure, he called it. One of the things they went over was the connection between Alpha and bitten. The influence, the connection... Boyd had thought he'd understood, but the weight of the tether when it'd snapped into place had winded him. The level of influence an Alpha has over a Pack is phenomenal. Comforting and terrifying all at once. It's power makes it a burden at times; Boyd's struggled more than once with the sensation of instinct kicking his mind one way while his thoughts go another.

And all that's with only _one_ Alpha.

"You're not gonna be much of anything," Abby says gleefully, and Stiles' terrified gaze meets Boyd's a second before Dana snarls and sinks her teeth into his shoulder. Boyd closes his eyes against the sight, breathing the blood and the fear, wrapping the sound of Stiles' scream around his nerves and hoping it's enough.

* * *

Derek knows there's something wrong the moment Erica stops mid-jibe, eyes going wide and heartbeat breaking out double time. He has a second to worry that Peter's right _there_ before Erica speaks, and very suddenly it doesn't matter.

"Stiles," she says, eyes flashing blue. "Derek, they have Stiles."


	3. Bond

Derek's moving before he even registers it. "Call Scott," he barks at Isaac, who flips out his phone and is on the porch almost immediately. Derek grabs his keys. "Erica-"

"I'm coming with you," Erica says, already on her feet and though she's still moving with a limp, Derek won't argue with her. They're going to need the numbers and if they fail... well, she's not going to be any safer here.

"They'll be holed up in the industrial district," Peter says and Derek freezes, because fuck. _Fuck_. "Though I'll wager our Bonded wolf will be able to narrow it down from there," Peter continues and though his voice is casual, Derek can read the calm before the storm for what it is.

Derek's snarl actually catches himself by surprise and he sees Erica duck beside him, placing herself at his shoulder, facing Peter. Peter's smirk widens. "Well done, nephew," he says. "I'll congratulate you properly on the play if we make it through this alive."

"Scott'll meet us on the edge of town," Isaac says, stepping back into the room. It's enough of a break in the tension that Derek's able to shrug off Peter's stare and grab his jacket.

* * *

Erica swallows against the muck of the alley and raises her head, testing the air carefully. In - out - _taste_. It's a familiar rhythm, one Derek's spent months drilling into her and Boyd.

_It's bad enough trying to scent things from memory_ , he'd said. _Let alone a memory that isn't even yours_.

Erica still snorts at that particular understatement. It'd taken weeks after Bonding for her and Boyd to be able to sense each other, another month before they could pass sensations along the Bond. Pain is the easiest. Erica will never forget the sensation of feeling bones break that aren't hers – feeling Boyd's pain and wanting to gnaw the Bond in half just to escape it.

After they'd mastered the extremes, they moved onto subtleties. Scent, sight and sound. When Derek had explained it, Erica thought she'd be walking around with a direct line to Boyd FM but, like a lot of shit that came with the whole werewolf gig, it wasn't at all that simple. Instead of moving visions and phantom smells, Erica learned to receive impressions – warped bundles of sensation, often too obscure or incomplete to get anything from.

Day in and day out, Derek had pushed them and god, Erica had hated him, hated Boyd, hated _everything_. And then one day, she'd managed to claw apart one of Boyd's mystery impressions and she found ... reassurance, pride, warmth, _Pack_. Erica had never cried so hard, sobbing exhausted and so _grateful_ into Boyd's neck and it was so utterly _her_ to be mystically bonded to a boy for three fucking months before she fell for him.

After that, it got easier, until Boyd could all but write her a goddamn sonnet of impressions and she could pick them apart.

"How the hell is she supposed to get anything around here?" Scott says loudly behind her. "It smells like gasoline and pee."

Derek admitted not long ago that his original plan was to pair Erica up with Scott. Count the millions of ways Erica's grateful _that_ one fell through.

"It's that way," she says, nodding to their left before turning back to Derek – Derek who looks like he's about to vibrate out of his freaking skin. What's worse is Erica's the same – and so's Isaac. The whole Pack is on high alert, instinct kicking into overdrive, all over painfully human Stiles who isn't even fucking Pack. Erica's never liked not knowing the whole story and this? This feels like a fucking novel has been sitting under her nose this whole time.

Derek takes off into the darkness and the group follows, Scott hot on Isaac's heels and Peter bringing up the rear, like he knows and enjoys just how uncomfortable everyone is having him at their backs. 

Erica doesn't know what to make of Peter. In a lot of ways he feels like Pack, a phantom sensation Derek had explained; one that remains due to his blood connection to him as Alpha. It's an instinct they've been directed, in no uncertain terms, to ignore. Peter isn't to be trusted. 

Hell, half the reason Boyd's cooling it with the enemy, is so Peter didn't have the chance to offer himself up to the Alphas first. 

Erica still remembers the months of training to mask their reactions – the staged fight and run. Erica may not have had anything to do with Peter Hale in the past, but she's smart enough to be wary of anyone who warrants that sort of careful planning.

Not that it matters much now. Erica only hopes that with Boyd in place, Peter will see approaching the Alphas now as too much of a risk.

Erica knows the moment they've found the right warehouse, the sickly scent of wool dye hitting her with a familiarity not her own.

"Here," she says and takes up a defensive stance at Derek's back with Isaac as Derek and Scott haul at the door. The Alphas are long gone which isn't a surprise - Boyd already signalled them that much on the car ride across town. They've left Stiles though; Erica can already smell him. Blood is very particular.

"Stiles!" Scott shouts as soon as he's through the door. Derek doesn't make a sound, just prowls through the warehouse at speed and Erica can feel his humming, wire-edge anxiousness like it's her own. It spikes when they round a rusting conveyor belt and- _Jesus fucking Christ_.

Scott makes a wounded sound and takes off but Derek gets there first, tearing the handcuffs from the partition with one clawed hand and catching Stiles before he can buckle. "Hey – wow – violence," Stiles says, and even though his voice is harsh, like he's been – god, like he's been _screaming_ , it's still the best thing Erica's ever heard.

Scott and Derek lower Stiles down so he's sitting, back against the partition, breathing still ragged but hey, at least there _is_ breathing. With the feelings Erica's been getting off Boyd, she's genuinely surprised.

"Are you okay?" Scott asks. Derek doesn't even bother with words, instead pulling Stiles' shirt across, making Stiles flinch as he tries to find the source of the blood and oh -

Derek freezes, and Erica's suddenly re-thinking that whole breathing thing.

"How many?" Derek says, low enough that Erica wouldn't hear it if she wasn't a wolf.

Stiles swallows, loud in the sudden silence, and the fact he's not joking — like he does every other time one of them is covered with blood — isn't good. "Four," he says. "And I'm guessing by the look on your face, it's as bad as they said it is."

Derek's answer is a low growl and, inexplicably, Stiles laughs – short and too high to be anything but hysterical. "That good hey?" he says.

"Can you walk?" Derek asks and Stiles just sighs, banging his head back against the partition.

"Maybe?"

Derek drags him up anyway, pulling a pained sound from him and a protest from Scott. "Hey – maybe you shouldn't-"

"We need to leave," Derek cuts him off. "They might be back."

Scott scowls but ducks under Stiles' other arm anyway. That's when Erica notices the dark bloom of blood on Stiles' sleeve, and suddenly Derek's question makes terrible sense.

Four bites. Four Alphas. Oh _fuck_.

* * *

Stiles is seriously starting to hate the shit out of the Vet's surgery. Because as associations go, blood and panic is probably the worst of it.

"Stiles, I'm going to cut your shirt off you okay? It'll save you having to lift your arms," Deaton says and Stiles just nods. He's wearing his Captain America shirt – as if today couldn't get any worse.

"You're gonna be okay," Scott says, clutching at Stiles' hand. If he's sucking up any pain, Stiles can't tell. It's not the first time he's said it and the more he does, the more it feels like he's trying to reassure himself more than anyone else. Because putting aside the stone-wall seriousness of Derek's face and even the grim tone to Peter's voice as he'd peeled off from the group, Deaton had taken one look at the bite marks and shut right down. If one thing's glaringly obvious, it's that Stiles isn't going to be okay.

Deaton shifts his shirts off him, gently but quickly and Stiles can't help but hiss when his collar drags at the bite on his shoulder. It's the biggest of the lot, mostly because it's a two-for-one deal. Once Crazy Bitch Queen had her go, one of the twins had stepped forward to take her place. Stiles hasn't ever felt that sort of pain before. He must have blacked out for a while after because when he'd been able to focus again, the place had been deserted.

"How's it looking doc? Will I ever play pro again?" He asks. The joke falls as flat as he thought it would, though Scott — bro of his life that he is — musters a weak grin. It's better than Derek's death stare. Though to be fair, the glare's more for the bite marks than Stiles himself.

"Take a picture dude, it'll last longer," Stiles says and Derek's eyes flick up to his for a split second before sliding away. It's enough though - enough for Stiles to read the cold, flat _terror_ there. It makes Stiles' stomach turn over.

"God, would you please just say it?" He says, and he can't even care that he sounds so broken because, _Jesus_...

Derek freezes and even Deaton pauses in his work before suddenly tipping some devil's concoction of fucking _fire_ over the wound on Stiles' shoulder. Stiles shouts in an entirely unmanly manner but fuck it, _devil fire_. He doesn't see Derek move but he must because suddenly he's right there, hand hot and solid on the unmarred side of Stiles' neck, the other on his knee and oh, yep, there's that wolf painkiller magic Stiles is starting to love.

"I'm going to die," Stiles says.

"He's just cleaning the wounds," Scott says and Stiles just can't, he _can't_...

"No," he says, pinning Derek down with a look, which isn't so hard considering he's about six inches away. " _I'm going to die_."

Derek swallows, and it's loud in the sudden silence. "You'll be lucky if you die," he says finally, and Stiles is mildly surprised to note how much it seems to cost him to say it.

Stiles laughs, a little hysterically. "Do you practice being dramatic in a mirror?"

"You were bitten by four Alphas, Stiles," Deaton says. "Do you know what that means?"

Stiles sighs and tries to pretend he isn't leaning into Derek's touch as much as he is. "Head bitch in charge said something about the connection between bitten werewolves and the Alpha that bit them. I'm gonna go out on a limb and assume that more isn't better with these sorts'a things."

Derek's eyes boring into him scream _understatement_.

"The connection of a bitten wolf to it's Alpha is strong. Scott experienced it first hand through Peter," Deaton explains and Stiles hisses again when he spreads funky smelling ointment over his neck. "That connection takes a significant mental toll."

"And I just got four-times the dose," Stiles says, eyes on Derek's, which is slightly surreal given he's having a conversation with someone who isn't him.

Derek nods. "You're going to have four different consciousnesses influencing you. Instincts dragging you in four separate directions. At best you'll go mad-" Derek stops and Stiles feels his fingers flex against his neck.

"At worst?" Stiles asks.

Stiles can't even begin to decipher the look on Derek's face. "At worst, you lose who you are – you become their tool." Derek's fingers press a little harder into his skin. "At worst, you kill us all."

* * *

Lydia is petrified of spiders. When she was little, she used to lock up if she saw one, breath stuck in her throat and stomach clenching vice-like against the terror. The kids in kindergarten thought it was hilarious and taunted her, running after her with garden spiders until she'd cried loud enough that a teacher heard.

It wasn't acceptable. Venomous school children having that sort of power over her. And so, in the summer between kindergarten and first grade, she'd made her father take her out to her grandparent's farm and had slept in their spider-riddled barn until she could breathe through the fear. She was still scared — that never, ever went away — but it would be a cold day in hell before she'd let anyone know it ever again.

That instinct, more than anything else, is what keeps her from collapsing in on herself when she opens her front door to find Peter Hale on the other side. Peter Hale who smiles warmly at her, like they're old friends and not tormenter and victim.

"Hello Lydia darling," he says. Lydia wants to throw up. Instead she stares at him, eyes never wavering, grip on the door handle remaining loose and calm.

"What do you want?" She asks. Her voice doesn't break, though she can feel the crawling at the base of her spine.

Peter tips his head, and if Lydia hadn't been all but living with Jackson for the last few weeks she wouldn't recognise a werewolf scenting the air. But she has, and she does. "He's upstairs," she says plainly. "I suggest you say what you came here to say, before I scream and he rips your throat out."

It's an empty threat - Lydia's not dumb enough to pit Jackson, still new to all this craziness, against someone born to it, and the look of smug condescension on Peter's face says he knows it. Still he raises his hands, placating. "No need for that," he says. "I came to ask a favour."

Lydia scoffs, _loudly_. "What the hell makes you think I'd do anything for you?" She asks.

Peter glances at the stairs and Lydia knows he can hear Jackson coming. His face loses its smugness and for a bare moment, Lydia is thrown. "Because it's not for me," he says. "It's for Stiles."

* * *

Derek still remembers the first time his little sister Fee got sick. She was young, not quite four, and the fever had snuck in under her skin like a demon, pulling her temperature up dangerously and giving her sweet scent a tang that Derek has since come to associate with sickness. He'd been petrified — nine years old and glued to his baby sister's bedside — because this, this was just _unnatural_.

"She's human," his mother had explained gently as she brushed Derek's hair back from his forehead, fingertips still damp from where she'd done the same to Fee just moments before. "Humans get sick, baby."

"It's not fair," Derek had complained, petulant and young. "I hate it."

And he had. Hated a world that made Baby Fee burn up and shiver at the same time; hated that he couldn't do a thing to stop it. His mother had looked at him, tender and serious, and held out her hand.

"Give me your hand, baby," she said. "I'll show you a way you can help."

Derek still remembers the little sound Fee made, soft and relieved as he learned to take some of her pain – absorb and endure it himself so she didn't have to. It's the same noise Stiles now makes, even in unconsciousness, as Derek presses his hand down over his wrist, feeling the rabbit-fast thump of his pulse under his too-hot skin.

The relief doesn't last long and Derek hates the furrow of Stiles' brow and the sight of new prickled sweat on his throat just as much as he hated Fee's first flu.

"He's getting worse," Scott says and Derek grits his teeth against the sarcasm rearing up. Not the time. "Why is it happening so fast? It wasn't like this for me."

"You weren't bitten by four Alphas," Derek says, biting back the _you idiot_ he sorely wants to tack onto the end of the sentence. "This is more potent."

Stiles moans, tossing his head and Derek wants to kill something, badly. He hears Isaac next door put his fist through the wall but can't bring himself to give a fuck that his emotions are starting to bleed over. If things continue the way they are right now, it won't matter anyway.

Derek honestly doesn't know whether the Alphas are hoping that Stiles will turn or that the transformation will kill him. He guesses it doesn't matter. Either way, the Pack will fall - either at Stiles' hand, or because Derek's too weak from losing him. The best chance Erica and the others have now is running - cutting ties to the Pack and taking their chances as Omegas. It's an instruction he's not looking forward to giving — one the Alpha part of him all but snarls at — but he'll do it. He may be good as dead, but the others don't have to be.

Derek looks up at Scott, taking in the kid's worried face, and sighs. No time like the present. "Scott-"

"Hope we're not interrupting," Peter says loudly, breezing through the door like he's entering stage left, bringing with him-

"Lydia?" Scott says incredulously.

Derek can't blame him. Of all people to be keeping company with Peter, Lydia ought to have been the last. Jackson is - well, behind Lydia is stretching it a bit - he's practically right on top of her, arm secure around her waist as he glares daggers at the room in general. Derek can't help but think that if Stiles were awake he'd be making a guard dog joke right about now.

"You'll catch flies, McCall," Jackson says with his usual air of Eau de Asshole.

Lydia gently shrugs off Jackson's arm and approaches Stiles, eyes wide and shocky. Derek finds himself missing the days he thought her cold-blooded.

"What's happening to him?" She asks.

"He's turning," Scott says, glancing at Derek. "Or-" a harsh swallow, "Or dying."

"Either outcome is a very bad thing," Peter says.

"What do you want me to do?" Lydia says and it's something Derek can't help but wonder as well. Why bring Lydia?

"You don't have to _do_ anything, my dear," Peter says. His step towards Lydia is met with a low growl from Jackson and Derek's not even going to slightly begrudge it. Peter stops with a roll of his eyes. "You just have to _be_."

Lydia's eyes narrow and yep, there's the Queen of Beacon Hills High Derek remembers. "Start making sense or I'm leaving," she says icily.

Peter grins, like she's a puppy that's just performed a cute trick. "How are you with needles?" He asks. As if on cue, Deaton makes a reappearance, carrying with him- oh...

_Oh..._

"How do you know it'll work?" Derek asks as Deaton places the tubing and needles on the table. Lydia eyes him with confusion.

"I don't," Peter says, tipping his head. "But it's better than nothing."

"You want me to transfuse him?" Lydia says and Derek would wonder how she knows the look of the equipment except he knows all too well how familiar with hospitals she must be by now. "Why?"

"Because you're the only person I've ever heard of that's walked away from the bite of an Alpha completely human," Peter says.

Lydia stares at him, incredulous and cagey and Derek swallows hard. This is a chance, and fuck knows they need it.

"You're immune," he says. And then, because she's glancing to Jackson like she might run, "Please," he grits. "If there's even a chance..."

"Lydia please," Scott says, all the desperation there that Derek fails abysmally at showing. "He's dying."

"You do _not_ have to do this," Jackson says harshly and Derek just barely bites down on a snarl. He's smart enough to know it won't help, even if it would make Jackson cower satisfyingly.

Lydia sighs, looking down at Stiles and the fact this is even a _choice_ makes Derek's skin prickle, wolf beneath the surface raging because this is _Stiles_...

"Yes I do," Lydia says finally. "He'd do the same for me."

Well, there's an understatement and a fucking half.

Derek breathes out. And then he looks to Erica and Isaac - Erica and Isaac who have followed Jackson and Lydia in, blocking their exit and unsheathing claws in readiness. Erica and Isaac who now stand down.

Derek breathes out at Lydia's choice. It means he doesn't have to force it.

* * *

Someone's yelling. Which is a real dick because Stiles is freaking _tired_. Like, bone-deep tired. His marrow is exhausted.

"And what? You figured we didn't deserve a heads up about the serial killing _werewolves_ in town?"

Jackson. What the hell is Jackson doing in his room?

"Excuse us for not seeking the help of the guy who's been trying to _kill us_ the last six months!"

And Erica. Huh. Stiles is fairly sure he's had this dream but it didn't involve so much yelling. Well, not angry yelling at any rate.

"- fewer people involved the better. You might have had a chance if you'd kept your heads down."

Yep. He's definitely had this dream. Because that's Derek, and Derek - well, let's just say Stiles' red line of fucknope is less effective when he's unconscious.

"And now?" Lydia says, because best dream ever.

"Now you're with us or you die."

Or not. Stiles groans and goes to roll over. Only there's a hand suddenly on his shoulder pushing him down into - okay, not his bed.

"Stiles? Stiles, can you hear me?" Scott asks from like, three inches away. Stiles batters upwards with his hands, waving Scott and his tone of perpetual worry away because he's fine - really, he's-

Oh god, he's a werewolf. Stiles freezes. "Am I furry? Do I have fur?" He asks. Then, because this is his life, "Please tell me it's not like, hot pink or something."

Scott laughs. It comes out sudden and surprised. "You're not furry, Stiles," he says and Stiles blinks his eyes open, Scott's grinning face swimming into view. "You're fine," he says and the relief in the words is harsh enough for Stiles to figure it'd been a close thing. "You're human, dude."

Wait, what? "What?"

"Human," Isaac parrots, his face appearing upside down beside Scott's. "Lydia has magic blood."

Stiles shifts, and his body promptly proves how very human he is when the bite still on his shoulder flares pain down his back. Holy _god_.

Scott's face crumples into a worried frown. "Careful," he says. "Deaton patched you up as best he could, but you'll still take a while to heal."

From bite marks. Stiles grimaces. "Funny how when you take the prospect of wolfing out from the equation being bitten is just really creepy and disgusting," he says, foisting himself up from the - huh, from Derek's couch - with Scott's help.

"Welcome to my life," Lydia says. Stiles looks up and wow, gang's all here. Lydia is perched on a makeshift coffee table, looking like the cover of a grungy indie magazine with the burnt-out backdrop. Jackson stands behind her, looming like - oh yeah, _all_ the guard dog jokes, man. Erica has taken possession of the other couch, crashed out under what looks like Isaac's jacket while Derek slouches against the non-singed arm of it, still managing to look like the hero on the cover of a freaking romance novel. It's the jawline. And the eyebrows. If those aren't Heathcliffe eyebrows, Stiles will eat the hat he isn't wearing.

"Uh - magic blood?" Stiles asks.

"We transfused you," Lydia says with a flick of her hair. "You're lucky I'm O negative."

"We're lucky it worked," Peter cuts in and Stiles turns to find him hovering in his blind spot like the creeper that he is.

"Yeah, about that," Jackson says. "Would someone like to explain why Stilinski is the deciding factor in our survival?"

Stiles would protest but...well, he's sorta wondering the same thing. Because while Derek had managed to explain very ominously how Stiles was likely to turn into the world's worst Alpha slave before Stiles passed out, he hadn't got to the part about how that was any worse than what was already gunning for them.

"Yes, Derek," Peter says, his annoying shit levels hitting an all time high as he levels a smirk at Derek. "Why is Stiles so important?"

All eyes turn to Derek, who looks - wow, just...really freaking uncomfortable. Like Lydia has approached him and offered a makeover involving guy-liner. Stiles is suddenly about a million times more worried because seriously, anything that can make Derek look like a deer in headlights has to be bad.

Derek scrubs a hand over his face, like he's trying to scour away the whole conversation. His eyes flick to Stiles and away, jerky, and - yep - Jesus, they're all _screwed_. Finally he focuses on Jackson, or rather, on the hand Jackson has on Lydia's shoulder. It's kinda creepy actually, the way he can't seem to go for more than a few moments without touching her. Stiles puts it on his list of things to hate about Jackson.

"Your eyes," Derek says, nodding up at Jackson. "They're blue - when you shift."

It's not a question and Stiles finds himself perking up because, sue him, he's a sucker for new werewolf trivia. Jackson frowns and nods. "Yeah, so?"

"So, have you wondered why?" Derek asks.

It's very clear he hasn't, frown dipping meanly, the way it always does when Jackson thinks someone's trying to get one over on him.

"Erica," Derek says, and it's a request wrapped in an order. Erica shifts smoothly with it, ducking her head. When she raises her chin her fangs protrude sharply, face half-through a shift and her eyes- whoa.

"It's because you're Bonded," Erica says, eyes flashing electric blue, and Stiles can't help the tiny punch to the gut that revelation brings with it. Jackson's hand on Lydia's shoulder spasms slightly, the only sign of his surprise. Stiles watches sourly as Lydia brings her own up to cover it.

So much for his freaking fifteen year plan.

"But...your eyes were blue," Scott says suddenly, and Stiles looks up so fast he almost gives himself whiplash. He's not the only one either - just about everyone in the room is looking at Derek with looks ranging from surprised to calculating. All except Peter, whose smirk looks like a sentient thing, about to slither off his face and high-five someone.

Derek nods like he has lead weights strapped to his neck and doesn't look at Stiles. Pointedly doesn't look at Stiles. In fact, his not looking at Stiles is so very pointed, Stiles could stab someone with it. Stiles puts everything together so fast his head spins. "They think we're _Bonded_?!" He says, and that's a manly level of shriek, thanks.

Peter, proving himself the five-foot-ten slab of _asshole_ he is, actually laughs. "They don't _think_."

Stiles just about drops his jaw on the floor because what the ever loving _fuck_ -

"Bonding is a complicated process," Peter says, obviously enjoying himself. Stiles would be itching to swing, but he's too busy staring at Derek as Derek clenches his jaw and, in turn, stares a hole in the floor. There's a whole lot of non-denial going on and Stiles is so not a fan. "It's steeped in lore, heresy and tradition. Not even the oldest Packs fully know how it happens. What we do know is that it takes an exchange; a token or symbol, and a need in both parties that can be satisfied in the other."

Seriously, a need? And the trophy for most obscure shit ever goes to...

As for the exchanged token - Derek's about as giving as the fucking Grinch and Stiles hasn't- oh... Stiles' eyes widen and he feels his heart practically trip over itself. It's no surprise that Derek looks up at it, meets his eyes and Stiles is suddenly thrown back to the police station waiting room, pinned by a gaze whose haunted look was a lot fresher...

Stiles lurches to his feet, ignoring the accompanying stab of pain as he jabs a finger at Derek. "You. With me. Everyone else, stay here or I'm going to find some really fucking creative uses for the wolfsbane I have stashed at my fucking house."

He's out the door and down the stairs before anyone can recover from their shock, not even checking to see if Derek's following. It becomes apparent he is when Stiles hits the tree line and Derek says, "Where are you going?"

"Scott can hear shit from fifty yards - I'm gonna assume Peter can match or better that," Stiles says, because fuck everything - he's nothing if not thorough with his wolf experiments.

He makes it maybe seventy yards in when he stumbles, because apparently nearly dying is a dick for stamina. He doesn't go down though; instead he's caught by the arm and swinging until his whole world is Derek's obscene Henley shirt that simultaneously leaves everything and nothing to the imagination and oh my god, everything is _fucked_.

"I was _ten_." He means it to come out forceful. Had this whole plan building and everything. What transpires instead is a pathetic excuse for a whining complaint, made even worse when he's forced to clutch at Derek's ridiculous biceps as he's lowered onto a log.

"I know," Derek says and his voice just makes everything worse because he's being quiet and not growling and Stiles can't-

"I didn't know what I was doing!" Stiles says, fisting his hands in Derek's shirt, forcing him to stay kneeling in front of him and Derek just fucking _lets him_ and Stiles doesn't know whether to laugh or cry.

"I know," Derek says again, and Stiles- Stiles goes with the laughing.

It's a good couple of minutes before he regains control of himself and seriously, Derek probably deserves points for not lobbing him into a tree at this point.

For a while they just breathe together, the forest eerily silent around them. In a world where Stiles lives to bitch out everything that moves, this is probably a record.

"They tried to turn me because I could get close to you," Stiles says finally, staring a hole in Derek's chest. 

Derek stills under his hands. "Yes," he says. "You're the only one I can't fight. You could try to kill me, and I'd let you."

Stiles grimaces. "That's not nearly as comforting as it should be."

Derek snorts and Stiles looks up because - well, anything even close to a laugh coming from Derek freaking Hale warrants some surprise. He regrets it immediately because wow, yeah - they're ah...very close together. Stiles could have seriously lived his whole life without being able to determine the exact hue of Derek Hale's goddamn eyes.

The answer is all of them by the way. _All_ of the freaking hues.

"Can it be broken?" He asks.

Derek sighs, sitting back on his heels and thank fuck, Stiles has never been so glad for personal space in his life. "I don't know. I've never heard of it happening."

Not a no then. Probably not enough to help them right now though.

Stiles sighs. "They'll come after me again, won't they?"

"Probably," Derek says. "I'd say they won't waste time trying to turn you again, though."

"What happens to you if I die?" Stiles asks.

Derek blinks, like the question's surprised him, and Stiles takes a second to realise it's probably because he's not used to people giving a rats ass about _him_. That's just - well, depressing is what it is. Stiles watches as Derek's jaw clenches, head turning to stare back the way they'd come.

After a long moment, he answers. "Peter was Bonded, before the fire," he says. "It wasn't the burns that kept him in the coma."

Well. Fuck.

"I'd be an easy kill. And without an Alpha, the rest of the Pack would be too," Derek says.

Stiles is no stranger to feeling weak. In a world filling up with increasingly dangerous, superpowered individuals, he's painfully aware there's a weakest link to everything and this one's five-foot-ten pale-skinned sarcasm. But this? This is a whole new level of being useless. This is being the fucking neon-red kill switch that cuts down everyone he cares about.

"I'm sorry," Derek says suddenly, like he's been packing the gun powder behind it for years and has only just got up the guts to fire. Stiles looks up sharply and blinks, because what?

"Dude, this - this isn't your fault," he says.

Derek levels him with his patented 'Stiles, you're an idiot' look. "Last I checked, I was the werewolf."

"Last I checked, it wasn't you handing out fucking doughnuts," Stiles says.

It takes all of three seconds for the utter ridiculousness of that sentence to sink in. Three seconds that see Derek's eyebrows practically launch themselves into space off his forehead and Stiles almost dies trying not to laugh himself off the damn log. This time, when he calms down, it's to find Derek looking at him with — Jesus Christ, call the freaking tabloids — an honest-to-god small smile pulling the corner of his lips up.

"Oh my god, you're smiling - the apocalypse is nigh," Stiles says, which earns him an eye roll and a slight shove as Derek turns and foists himself up next to Stiles on the log.

"So. Erica?" Stiles asks.

"Bonded to Boyd," Derek says.

"Huh, how's that work with the whole team switch-" Stiles stops suddenly because no, no _way_. Derek raises an eyebrow, and that's all the confirmation Stiles needs. "He hasn't gone dark side," Stiles says. "He's a _plant_?"

Derek inclines his head and Stiles can feel a grin splitting his face, because holy shit. "That's actually genius."

Derek snorts. "Try to sound more surprised," he says sarcastically.

Stiles splutters for a moment. "I didn't - I mean - oh come on dude, I know I've only got Peter and Psycho Pack as a baseline but I don't think you'll be winning any world's best Alpha awards-"

Stiles stops because seriously, mouth filter fail alert. He cringes and waits for the inevitable violence but finds himself left hanging when Derek just sighs, low and ... tired. When Stiles looks over, it's to find Derek looking the most freaking _human_ Stiles has ever seen him.

"I was never supposed to be Alpha," Derek says, and something in his voice scares the ever-loving shit out of Stiles. This - no, he did not sign up for this. Teeth and threats he can handle, but Derek's not supposed to garner freaking _sympathy_ , for god's sake.

Because it's suddenly very apparent that Derek never _wanted_ this. Any of it. The realisation is a sharp, hard punch to the gut and Stiles can't help his soft, "Oh..."

Fucking _hell_.

"We should get back," Derek says and Stiles nods numbly.

* * *

The tree line is still. Has been for a good twenty minutes now.

"Five more minutes," Scott says to himself, claws itching so hard he's not even going to try to pretend he's got control. Like it matters.

"He'll be fine," Isaac says, and it's a testament to how distracted Scott is that he didn't hear him come out onto the porch. "Derek's with him."

Scott scowls. "That's sorta what I'm worried about," he says.

Isaac doesn't say anything, just takes up a position next to him, eyes on the tree line as well. Scott would like to think he makes it at least two minutes before breaking - in actuality, it's probably something like thirty seconds.

"How can you stand with him?" He says, voice harsh and loud in the dusk quiet. "After everything he's done?

Isaac cocks his head. "You mean sticking around Beacon Hills to save your ass?" It's not said harshly, but it's not placating either. Blank, flat and without expression. Scott hasn't ever known what to do with a tone like that and Isaac's a pro at it.

Scott stomps down on a frustrated growl. "He's using you," he says, stomach churning with the latest of it. Forcing a Bonding? Just to give himself an _edge_? "He's recruited you into a fight that wasn't even yours to begin with."

Isaac inclines his head, eyes tripping back to the tree line. "That's true," he says and Scott blinks, because what? Isaac sighs. "But see - that's really nothing you have a right to get upset about."

Scott startles. "What-"

"Do you know what my life was like? Before I met Derek?" Isaac cuts him off and Scott swallows, remembering an upright freezer and nail marks...

"I-"

"You don't," Isaac says, eyes not leaving the tree line. "You don't know. So I ask you this," Isaac turns his eyes to Scott's and Scott finds himself swallowing harshly at the studied, hard expressionlessness there. It's the look of someone who can't show anything or he'll show everything. "How can you say my life now is any worse than my life before?"

Scott opens his mouth to argue but ... god, there's nothing...

"You're allowed to be pissed at Derek for what he's done in the past," Isaac says. "Just don't think you get to ride in to mine or Boyd or Erica's rescue. We're not helpless - we're not dumb. We made this choice, it's _ours_."

Isaac ends on a harsh growl and for a split second there's a ring of gold in his eyes before he turns back to the forest. Scott swallows hard and tries to make sense of everything.

Long moments later he speaks up. "Can I at least be pissed at him for putting you on baby-sitting Scott duty?" He says tentatively, and Isaac's smirk is like a knifes edge through the tension.

"Not our fault you need it," he says.

Scott is about to protest but he's distracted by movement at the trees. Oh thank god.

"About time," Peter says and Scott jumps because apparently he needs to start training more with Stiles, Jesus. What's worse is that Isaac doesn't startle at all. Peter grins, wolfish. "Houston, we have a plan."

* * *

Derek snarls, Alpha bleeding through his control and making his claws sharpen. "Not happening."

Peter rolls his eyes. "And you have something better, do you?"

The group has moved back inside, taking up much the same setup they'd had before, except now everyone's looking at Peter incredulously instead of Derek.

"I have not _that_ ," Derek growls.

"You're talking about sending Stiles in as bait!" Scott says and any other time, Derek would die of shock at Scott actually agreeing with him on something. Then again, Peter is notorious for getting warring factions to band together.

Peter sighs, like they're all brain deficient. "What part of Trojan Horse did you not understand?" he says. "They're going to expect him to be a wolf, under their control. He's the only one that will be able to get close enough-"

"Yeah - that's where you lost me," Stiles says, sounding strained. Derek's hackles rise at the tone. "You want me to _kill_ the Alphalpha?"

Derek can't help but roll his eyes at the newly coined name Stiles has given the lead Alpha, despite the current subject. Not that he should be surprised at all, but - come _on_.

Peter fixes Stiles with a withering look. "We can set you up with a few Molotov cocktails if that makes you feel better," he says scathingly.

Stiles glares. "Die in a fire - oh wait, you _have_ already."

Peter grins, wide and sadistic. "Oh, _burn_ ," he says, and fucking hell, Derek's _life_.

"That's enough!" he snarls. "We need a different plan."

"Good luck with that," Lydia says, and seriously? Lydia rolls her eyes at the room full of incredulous looks now on her. "Oh come on. I'm forever first in line to stab Peter in the throat-" Derek can't help but notice Peter's smile at that, like he's fucking _proud_. Lydia cocks her head. "But he has a point. This is the best plan we have. It's this, or nothing. And I don't know about anyone else, but I'm very over being mauled by werewolves."

Derek opens his mouth to protest but Stiles' sigh stops him. "We're gonna need wolfsbane."

God _damn it_.

* * *

They have two hours before dawn. Two hours before Stiles could be reasonably expected to have turned, which means Stiles has two hours of alone time with Peter's laptop, learning all he can about Bonding.

Derek finds him just as he's reading the story of Claire Leduc, an Alpha in France who'd been forced to claim her Mate during the revolution to save his life on the battlefield.

"Apparently," Stiles says, not looking up, "to seal the deal with this whole mating gig, you have to bite me. It's a symbol of you like, staking your claim or something." Stiles sits back in the chair, raising his gaze to Derek who has his _so-the-hell-what_ face on. "What is it with everything being biting with you guys? Just once I want to find some wolfy tradition involving manly hugs."

"Doughnut exchange not fluffy enough for you?" Derek says dryly.

Stiles inclines his head. "Fair call."

Derek does his unsettling lip quirk again and seriously, Stiles will never get used to this Derek. The one who makes smart plays that involve a solid lot of forethought and smiles in ways that don't make small furry animals want to run for cover.

"Up," Derek says then, voice reassuringly serious. "It's time."

Stiles sighs before snapping the laptop closed and climbing to his feet. "I still think this is a crappy idea," he says, hissing as he yanks his shirt over his head. Or rather, Scott's shirt, since his own was cut off him by Deaton. He's still not over the Captain America loss, FYI. 

He only has a moment to feel self conscious before Derek's all up in his grill, mouth set in a hard line and man, it's not even fair that all he has to do is get close and Stiles is one hundred percent distracted. Stiles sucks in a hasty breath. "You'll be going into a fight with a handicap."

Derek grunts, eyeing the bite on Stiles' shoulder like he can scald it off with the heat of his glare alone. "They won't slow me down much," he says. "And it's better than the Alphas smelling the wounds and working out you haven't turned."

Ah yes. That would suck a lot.

Stiles sighs and very carefully doesn't flinch when Derek fits one hand against the side of his neck, the other -

"You're so lucky I'm not ticklish," Stiles says, voice totally not squeaking at all. Derek just snorts, slotting his fingers more surely against Stiles' ribs and - oh - yep, _there we go_.

"You should like, go into business," Stiles slurs, the warmth dragging him down and under. "Your slogan could be, 'I'll huff and I'll puff and I'll blow your pain away'."

Stiles giggles - he can't even pretend it's anything else. Because his brain has headed straight for the gutter and - wow - he's just gonna go right ahead and blame the werewolf morphine for that ridiculousness. Derek rolls his eyes even as he winces, and Stiles is close enough to see the edges of the bite mark blossom angry and fresh at the collar of his shirt. A patch of blood is soaking through the material by the time he pulls away, taking the warmth with him.

* * *

They track the Alphas across town, holed up now in the- "Seriously," Stiles whispers. "The ice rink?"

"That'll be Boyd's doing," Erica says, flashing a grin in the darkness. Her eyes spark blue when she looks over at Stiles. "Familiar ground."

"It'll work to our advantage," Derek says lowly, throwing a complicated hand signal over to the darkened alcove where Peter, Isaac and Scott are crouched. Stiles would laugh at the total ridiculousness of a werewolf communicating in military hand signals but he's too busy trying not to have a panic attack. Derek turns back to him and wow - Stiles thought he'd seen Derek's whole array of serious eyebrows. He was wrong. "You ready?" Derek asks.

Stiles swallows and barely stomps down on the urge to shout, 'No! No I'm not!' before nodding. "Troy will fall tonight," he jokes, surprised that he manages to keep his voice almost level.

"Don't die," Erica supplies helpfully. Stiles throws her a thumbs up before straightening his shoulders, yanking his hood up and turning towards the mouth of the alley. Then he turns right back.

"So here's the thing..." He trails off, withering under Derek's askance eyebrows. "Okay."

He turns and even makes it a full step towards the Ice Rink this time before turning back.

If you were to ask Stiles why he did it, he wouldn't be entirely sure he'd have an answer. At least, not one that involves any sort of coherence. All he knows is he's probably about to die, the only action he's ever had was a really awkward game of spin the bottle when he was thirteen that culminated in Danny coming out of the closet a week later, and Derek ... well, the topic of Derek is fucking complicated but also ... also not. 

And so when Derek huffs and says, "Stiles-", he doesn't get any further than that, because Stiles has grabbed him by the collar of his stupid, stereotypical leather jacket and yanked him forward into - well, Stiles would like to call it a kiss. In reality though, it's more of an ill-timed, awkward mashing of lips, made even more awkward by the fact Derek seems to have frozen solid under his hands.

Stiles pulls back after a moment and cocks his head. "Huh," he says, trying to ignore the fact Derek's looking at him like he just slapped him with a baseball bat made of mountain ash. Erica makes a strangled noise next to them which may or may not be a smothered laugh.

Stiles clears his throat, pulls the edge of his hoodie down and turns away, head totally not buzzing and lips _studiously_ NOT freaking tingling and-

The grip on his arm catches him by surprise and he flails as he's yanked around before suddenly there's lips and stubble and oh... _oh_...

Stiles makes a noise that sounds broken even to him as Derek cants his head and uses his distraction to lick into his mouth and holy, motherfucking shit, kissing is _awesome_. Stiles feels leather crumple hot and soft in his grip as he yanks himself closer to Derek, chasing the feel of heat and wet and wow - who knew stubble could be this much of a turn on?

The sound he makes when Derek pulls away is going to go down in history as one if his ten most embarrassing noises, but Stiles can't really bring himself to care. Not when Derek's still only three inches away, cheeks flushed a pleasant red and eyes just - wow - that's what people mean when they say 'blown'.

"I weep for the home-made sex tape industry if you don't survive, Stilinski."

Stiles startles because holy shit, right, Erica is like, right there. Derek steps back hurriedly and Stiles is still punch drunk enough from seriously the _best kiss_ that he lets him.

Stiles licks his lips and tries to shake his head clear because death! Impending death! Okay!

He turns, this time making quick work of the short distance out of the alley.

As he rounds the corner, he looks up and gets a full frontal of Scott's smacked-fish look and Stiles almost laughs when he realises the impending death he's walking into rates a lower FUCKNOPE level than ever having to explain what just happened to his best friend.

* * *

Boyd is better at communicating through the Bond than Erica is. When Derek made this plan, it was hinged on passing the Pack information on the Alphas rather than the other way round, and so they'd mostly concentrated on one-way communication. He's regretting that now, because it's making his heart try to crawl into his goddamn throat as Stiles makes his way across the ice-rink parking lot, hood up and gait stuttering.

He's turned? Everything in Erica's message spoke of reassurance, of _plan_ \- _prepare_ , it'd said. Prepare for this? If everything Abby had gleefully filled him in on was to be believed, this is game over.

"Wow," Jacob says, "I'd've put money on him dying."

"Same," Abby says next to him, grinning. "This is way more fun though."

Dana shoots her a quelling look before stepping forward: Alpha of the Pack to meet its newest member. Newest slave, more-like. Boyd tenses, eyes ticking around the border of the car park, simultaneously glad and worried when he sees nothing.

Dana's within ten feet of Stiles, whose gait slows slightly at her approach, when Eli trips his head, scenting the air with a furrow of his brow. Boyd tenses. Because while Stiles is still too far away for him to smell, Eli's nose is like nothing Boyd's ever seen.

Sure enough, Eli's head snaps down and suddenly he's running. "He's human!" He shouts, and Boyd startles, because holy _what_?

A number of things happen at once then. Dana steps sharply, sinking into a defensive crouch and Stiles - yep, Stiles is totally human, because surely being a werewolf would have cured him of that instinctive flail backward. Eli's streaking past Dana, ignoring her call as he lunges and Boyd has barely a second to process the fact he's running too before Stiles is swearing and pelting a handful of purple dust into Eli's face at point blank range. Eli snaps backwards like he's been socked with a crowbar, shakes his head once and then falls.

Jacob _roars_ and the whole night explodes.

* * *

Stiles sees the Alpha go down under Lydia's pixie dust and has a moment of undiluted _thank fuck_ before suddenly the Alphalpha is right _there_. He falls backwards onto his ass, ungainly and awkward because holy shit, he's gonna die. Then suddenly the concrete in front of him explodes upwards in a wall of fire and — Peter be damned — thank god for Jackson's aim and Molotov cocktails.

He hears the roar a second before a giant black mass of fur is streaking over his head, jumping the flames and landing claws first on Head Bitch in Charge. Then suddenly Erica is at his side, dragging him up. "Move!" She snarls, hand clawed as she backs them both up, away from the blur of fighting. Isaac and Scott dodge past just as Stiles finds his feet, breaking into snarls as they hit the oncoming bulk of - holy fuck, well, that answers the question about Alpha forms differing.

The second twin has fully shifted, long-limbed and a shaggy ash-grey under the car park street lights. He's as big as Peter's Alpha-form was but more lean, snout longer and sharper and legs more canine than human. Stiles watches as he roars in the face of Isaac and Scott's attack before suddenly everything is a blur of teeth, snarling and claws.

Stiles stumbles as Erica pulls at him sharply, before finally turning and falling into a staggered run beside her. As much as he hates it, getting him out of range is the smart play, giant red target sign that he is.

Of course that means they don't make it far. Erica skids to a halt in front of him and he only just stops himself before colliding soundly with her back. Which, given the bulky bag slung over her shoulder, would have sucked a lot. Oh...

"Leaving so soon?" Red Leather Jacket grins. Stiles wants to roll his eyes so hard it hurts. Instead he concentrates on inching his hand up to the bottom of the bag, making sure Erica can feel the path of his fingers.

"Are you practising to be a super villain?" He says and Red Leather Jacket flicks her eyes to him. And wow - hello Eau de Crazy.

"I'm really fucking interested as to how you're still human," she says. "I think I'm going to pull you apart to find out."

"That sounds messy," Stiles says, fingers shaking as he fumbles over the zip. He can feel Erica vibrating in front of him, probably wanting to attack but knowing she wouldn't stand a chance against a full-blown Alpha on her best day, let alone when she's injured.

"Let's find out," Red Jacket snarls. The thing that lunges at them is a twisted, ugly monstrosity of a wolf - worse than the twin, worse even than Peter. Stiles feels his throat close up in horror even as his grip finds the handle of the baseball bat and Erica ducks and lunges sideways, allowing it to slide out of the bag and emerge already halfway through the swing that Stiles completes to bring it cracking into the side of the Alpha's head. The Alpha staggers hard, side of its face a crushed mass, leaking smoke and holy shit, Stiles will never doubt Lydia's new encyclopaedic knowledge of wolfsbane ever again.

Erica snarls and lunges, burying clawed fingers practically up to the palm under the Alpha's ribs. Red Jacket staggers under the blow before opening her jaws and fuck-fuck-

Then suddenly there's blood, just _everywhere_. Stiles has a split second of panic before he realises it's because the Alpha's neck is a gaping, slashed mess - gurgling down over Erica, and Stiles will seriously live his whole life with the vision of that red light flickering and dying as it watches him. When the Alpha's body falls with a sick thud, it's to reveal Peter behind it, eyes burning red and claws bloody.

Holy so-not-fucking-good batman.

Erica swallows. "Th-thanks," she says and miracle of miracles, Peter just nods, looking down at the body before him with a careful blank expression.

They have a moment of stillness before a howl, sharp, loud and _pained_ rises above the din of fighting and Stiles feels it like a knife in his side.

Derek.

He's running before he can think, ignoring Erica's cry behind him because fuck - fuck _no_. Derek's down, the lights of the carpark shining a spotlight on the scene as the Alphalpha rises over him, all sleek, black lines, just like her human form and he's not going to make it, he's too far-

The Alphalpha strikes downwards and Stiles cries out just as a dark shape barrels into her from the side and holy crap, Stiles is going to hug the _shit_ out of Scott if they make it out of this alive.

He barely registers Jackson and Erica streaking past him, backing Scott up with a roar before he's falling to his knees next to Derek, who's shifted back to human and oh god, that's a lot - _a lot_ of blood.

"Derek, c'mon, no dying - that's like, a rule," he says, voice cracking as he tries to press a palm over the wound, but god - it's too big and there's so much blood he's not even sure he knows _where_ the freaking thing _starts_.

"Stiles?" Derek says and promptly coughs like, half his insides up. Stiles can already see his eyes growing distant and shit - fuck - no... "Stiles, you need to run," he croaks.

Stiles ignores him and tries to make his brain work, blocking out the snarls and yelps of the fight that is way, way too close behind him, because Derek can't die, this isn't happening, there has to be something - anything -

Oh.

"Derek, Derek! You have to bite me!" Stiles says, pulling one bloody hand up to slap slightly at Derek's cheek, trying to keep his focus from sliding. "C'mon Derek - Mates can heal each other. It goes both ways!"

Stiles rips his sleeve up and tries to press his arm against Derek's mouth, but even if his fangs had been down, his mouth is too slack to do anything.

Fuck - fuck!

Behind him, the Alphalpha roars and Stiles hears a pained yelp that kicks him sharp in the ribs. His friends are dying and he can't do anything - can't even get fucking bitten, for _fuck's sake_. 

Stiles grips Derek's jaw, shaking him. "Derek please," he says, voice cracking. Light washes over Derek's shoulder as his jaw tips, highlighting the bite he took from Stiles bare hours ago and Stiles freezes. 

_It goes both ways_.

The snap of bone splits the night and Scott's cry this time is very, very human. Stiles stops thinking, tugs Derek's head to the side and lunges down, teeth first. He probably has adrenalin to thank for the fact he even breaks skin, probably also for the fact he doesn't realise it's working until he feels his shirt growing sticky, adhering to his skin and oh - yep - there's the pain...

Stiles sucks in a sharp breath as his head spins. Then suddenly it's spinning for a completely different reason as harsh hands yank him away from Derek's neck and ew - blood is _gross_.

Derek's panicked eyes look up at him.

"Stiles-"

"Save them," Stiles says. And then the darkness swallows him whole.

* * *

Jacob's body cracks the brick wall before he falls, heavy and unmoving at the mouth of the alley. Boyd breathes harsh and takes a moment to swipe the blood from his eyes as Isaac bumps his shoulder, shaken but alive. They exchange a look before they take off, following the sounds of the fight back to the carpark.

Boyd's heard the term 'bloodbath' before, but he doesn't think he's ever appreciated it. Not until now. Isaac beelines it for Scott whose arm is twisted at an odd angle as he tries to drag himself over to - oh god -

"Stiles!" Lydia cries, bloody up to the elbows as she tries to press a mess of what's possibly a jacket to Stiles' side. "Don't you fucking dare die, you hear me? I did not give you half my blood just for you to spill it all over the place!"

Boyd swallows down a lump of nausea, not indulging it - he can't, not yet.

Dana and Derek are fully shifted, black as eachother, but where Dana is hard edges and clipped, sharp fur, Derek is all sleek lines and long, shining coat. Of all the shifted Alphas in the melee, Derek is by far the most wolf-like. He's also the most animated, attacks lent an air of fresh desperation that Boyd knows has everything to do with Stiles lying feet away in a pool of blood.

Erica, Isaac and Jackson are circling the pair, looking for an opening and Boyd has a bare moment to think before he winds around to their other side, keeping to their blind spots and hoping Dana has been too busy to notice what side he's been fighting on.

When Derek lands a blow, she staggers, head turning slightly, wolf bleeding from her at the pain. She catches Boyd's eye and he knows he's in. Because that - that's relief. Boyd waits and watches as Derek notices too, deliberately slowing his next attack to give Dana a chance to back up as she shifts involuntarily. When Boyd makes his move, it's almost too easy.

Dana freezes in his arms, throat clicking harshly under his claws as she swallows. Then she laughs. "Fuck me," she says. "The whole time?"

"The whole time," Erica says, stepping up beside Derek as he shifts back, straightening fluidly. There's hardly a scratch on him. Erica's eyes flash blue and Dana grunts in surprise.

"You're beaten," Derek growls.

Dana laughs again, low and defeated. "No shit."

Boyd's claws flex at her throat and she sucks in a hasty breath. "You kill me, you become Alpha," she says, voice quiet. "You take my place in the Alpha Pack. You really want that blood on your hands?"

Boyd pauses, knowing instinctively she's not talking about her own blood. He meets Derek's eyes before looking to Erica - Erica who's gone from the sad, sick kid at school, to his partner in the Pack's survival to ... something else. Something that's made him feel not alone for the first time in his life.

"I have a Pack, thanks," Boyd says and steps back.

Dana sags but otherwise doesn't move. She's beaten and she knows it.

"You and yours will leave Beacon Hills by sun-up," Derek says lowly. "You have no business here."

Boyd circles around in front of Dana, taking his place beside Erica, and as Dana's eyes flick over their group he knows what she sees. The Pack of Beacon Hills, standing and strong.

"No," she agrees. "Apparently I don't."


	4. At a Distance

Morrell likes to watch from a distance. She finds it keeps things clearer; more in order. The further you are, the more perspective you have.

She tells herself that's why she watches the stand of the Beacon Hills Pack from the distance she does. Fulfilling her duties and Witnessing the judgement as has been directed. From this far, she can judge the fight as a whole; can ensure the statutes stand fast. From this distance, she also can't interfere.

She watches the Alphas fall; watches Dana back up. She watches and she pretends she doesn't bite down so hard on a cry of warning that her mouth fills with blood; pretends that her shaking as Dana walks away, fetching after her Pack, is the adrenalin from the fight.

She can't pretend now, though.

Jacob and Eli are out the front, loading the truck that will take the Alpha Pack far from Beacon Hills and Morrell doesn't hesitate as she steps out of the darkness, pressing Dana up against the dusty warehouse wall. Dana grunts as Morrell catches her mouth in a rough kiss, licking deep and sure because - god, she'd been _this_ close-

Morrell makes a noise that sounds broken, even to her, and it's enough to have Dana clutching back, hands threading into the hair at the back of her head and _pulling_. Morrell gasps, breaking the kiss to bury her face in Dana's neck and pretending, pretending so _hard_...

"Hey," Dana says softly, hands gentling in her hair and Morrell can't help but press closer. "It's okay, baby," Dana says, wrapping her up in an embrace that smells of leather and dried blood. Morrell hates it like she never has before.

"You almost weren't," she says into the dark crook of Dana's neck, hating herself for saying it.

Dana chuckles. "Yeah, must be gettin' a little slow in my old age. I didn't see the play with Boyd at all."

"I did," Morrell says. "And I hate that I couldn't tell you."

Dana goes still under her and Morrell knows why. This is like nothing she's ever said before. While she may have felt it, going into past jobs - watching the setups as they happen and worrying more than she should for Dana's safety - she's never admitted to it before. She shouldn't be admitting to it now.

Dana sighs and Morrell feels it like it's her own breath. "Oh boy, are we fucked."

The laughter punches out of Morrell like a blow, harsh and almost painful. When she pulls back it's to find Dana's eyes on her, soft and fond and god, when she kisses her it's like coming home.

"Oh I'm sorry," a voice says, and Morrell barely has time to gasp before she's being yanked behind Dana, a snarl on the Alpha's lips. Peter Hale smiles a smile that sees Morrell's nails bite crescents into her palms. "I didn't mean to interrupt," he says.

"What are you doing here?" Dana asks, hand not loosening it's grip on Morrell's wrist.

Peter cocks his head. "I heard you have a job opening," he says, eyes flashing red. "I've come to apply for the position."

* * *

Stiles wakes in darkness, limbs a warm, heavy fuzz and head not much better. It takes him a moment to process his senses, another to remember the events leading up to his second bout of unconsciousness in as many days. The panic, when it takes hold, isn't surprising.

"Calm down," Derek says, from like - god, six inches away. Stiles shifts, feeling the give of a mattress under him as he turns his head and catches the shine of Derek's eyes in the darkness. Derek's eyes that are very level with his and holy Jesus Christ he's in a bed with Derek Hale.

"Stiles, calm down," Derek says again, and this time Stiles feels the warm press of a hand on his chest, over his heart. Well, that would explain the case of cotton wool brain at least. Stiles stretches and feels the hand move with him.

"What-"

"Don't move," Derek says. "We're still healing."

_We?_

"Everyone's alive," Derek continues, pre-empting the question. "Though you almost weren't."

Stiles rolls his eyes, because trust Derek to get pissy about Stiles saving his ass. "Worked though didn't it?" He says, voice crackling with disuse in the darkness.

"Yeah," Derek says seriously. "It did." There's a moment of silence and Stiles blinks heavily through it before Derek says, "You might come to regret that."

Stiles snorts. "Did the Alphalpha kick you in the head?" he says, and Derek sighs.

"Can't you feel it?" Derek asks and Stiles frowns.

"The gaping hole in my side? Yes, I'm pretty sure-"

Derek shifts, lifting his hand slightly and Stiles - well, Stiles fucking _mewls_ , like a cat - a small, hurt cat - as he bucks back up into the touch and wow, that is just about a million shades of goddamn embarrassing...

"That was mean," he gasps, as Derek's palm settles securely over his heart once more. "Don't do that again."

"We're Mated," Derek says. "You're going to have to get used to it."

Stiles swallows - hard - and can't help bringing a hand up to cover Derek's own, pressing it more firmly to skin because of course the first time he's shirtless in bed with another person it's because he's recovering from life-threatening injuries through mystical werewolf Bonding. His _life_.

"So what, we're like, glued together?" He asks.

Derek sighs, and Stiles feels it on his shoulder. "Not permanently," he says. "Deaton says the need for proximity will get easier to handle over time. But-"

"But?" Stiles prompts.

"But - this is permanent," Derek says. "We are - _literally_ \- stuck with eachother. For the rest of our lives."

Stiles sucks in a breath and holds it, staring up at the darkened ceiling. He can just make out scorch marks by the light of the moon, so he's going to guess they're at the Hale house. The house that's seen the death of Derek's family, the death of the woman who killed them and now...

God ... How the hell is he even supposed to begin to process this?

"Well, it could be worse," Stiles says long moments later, turning back to Derek in time to see one eyebrow break away from its partner. Stiles will blame the werewolf roofies for his grin. "Of all the Alpha werewolves I've met, I can say one hundred percent that you'd be my first choice for a mystical life bond."

Derek rolls his eyes, but the snort of laughter that accompanies it is good. Fuck knows, they're going to need that humour for what's to come. 

Stiles closes his eyes, pressing Derek's palm to his heart as he listens to the house settle around them. Fuck knows...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Tumblr](http://hatteress.tumblr.com), people! YOU KNOW YOU WANT TO.

**Author's Note:**

> Come attack me on [Tumblr](http://hatteress.tumblr.com)!


End file.
